


The Fountain of Forgetfulness

by Ascended_Sleepers



Category: Elder Scrolls III: Morrowind, Elder Scrolls Online
Genre: Akavir, Ashlander culture, Chimeri culture, First Council days, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Politics, TES lore, Tri-Angled truth, fictional theology, headcanons
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-19
Updated: 2018-03-05
Packaged: 2018-06-09 09:34:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 15
Words: 117,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6900583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ascended_Sleepers/pseuds/Ascended_Sleepers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Voryn Dagoth was Nerevar's most loyal companion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reference rule: I reference a lot in this story (and in all my stories in general). Canon material, character speeches, various books I've read and which I deem fitting to reference in particular cases. As a rule, I don't point out all references at the end of the chapter, only some of them.
> 
> Enjoy! And thank you for your support.

_"Hortator and Sharmat, one and one, eleven, an inelegant number. Which of the ones is the more important? Could you ever tell if they switched places?"_

_\- 36 Sermons of Vivec, Sermon 11_

 

** **Chapter 1: Voryn Dagoth** **

_Under the Red Mountain, Dagoth Ur sleeps.  
_

***

Voryn Dagoth begrudged both gold and time to gather a resplendent company of loyal retainers to trail him during his annual visits to Narsis where on Nerevar’s demand, the heads of six ruling Houses met with the leaders of the Dwemer people to demonstrate their continual support of peace and rejoice in the glory of their victories. In that modesty he equated himself to his king and Hortator who, unlike nobles of the prominent Houses with their entourage of warriors in flowing many-colored garments and ornamental helmets, arrived to the palace in the company of his shield-bearer and three guards in traditional Indoril armor. The head of House Dagoth who grew up in the wilderness at the foot of the Red Mountain had an aversion for the extravagance of many nobles, but whether by virtue of habit or nobleness of character, the king led a life of frugality and he felt it more acutely than ever that they were strikingly similar to one another.

From the tall lancet window of the Narsis castle, Voryn watched Nerevar's modest company make its entrance and mingle with the ill-assorted crowd which anticipated his arrival. Whilst he stood engrossed in idle thoughts, one of the servants quietly left on the table behind him a succinct message which read that he was to meet his lord in the palace garden in an hour and in utter secrecy. Troubled by Nerevar's request, Voryn refreshed himself with a cup of cold comberry tea and wandered about the Narsis palace for a while, greeting his old acquaintances and shunning the procession of formidable Dwemer warriors which stretched all the way to the gate. Many Chimer didn't have too great an affection for the dwellers of the deep, regarding them with mistrust and hostility in spite of Nerevar's efforts to remind them that once their people fought together against a common enemy and shared their joys, sorrows and triumphs in equal measure. The clamor of voices around them died down. The sweaty stableboys who put to use their fists, elbows and heads in a fray in front of the fountain abandoned their brawl and stared at the Dwemer guard arrayed in full armor with a mixture of fear and awe. An Argonian handmaiden hid by the staircase, trembling all over and muttering prayers to Azura, and no remonstrance of her master's could convince her to calm herself.

And yet Nerevar appeared to all eyes unfazed by the adverse attitude of his subjects towards their allies. He pandered to Dumac by inviting him to feasts and celebrations, and Dumac - a true Dwemer who didn't recognize the need for pompous festivities - gladly accepted his invitation year after year. The Hortator was widely known in the realm as Azura's chosen Champion who stood high in her favor whereas the Dwemer, in contempt of the Daedric Princes and other 'barbaric superstitions', declared rationality their cardinal virtue and extolled gods of airships, scarabs and steam-powered colossi. But the bonds of their blasphemous friendship endured all tribulations and there seemed to be no force in the known Nirn which could shatter them.

Gloomy thoughts assailed Voryn and he felt a great want to admonish his lord which, in spite of their similar age, was genuine, fatherlike.

In the palace garden behind a high shady wall, sitting on the carpet of lush grass sprinkled with tender buds of stoneflowers, Nerevar drank finest wine with Dumac, the Dwarfking. The Hortator was of strong constitution, tall and dashing, and Voryn thought, forgetting his vows and promises, that no description of him did justice to his virile beauty. There was something both winsome and forbidding in his appearance; he would be gentle and merry, but suddenly he would be sobered by thoughtfulness, his lively features assuming, in their austerity, the likeness of a sculpture, and there would be an otherworldly air about him as if his mind wandered in the realms where no mortal had ever set foot. His pale-golden skin, noble features and a long, thin face in a frame of fair hair, scorched in the merciless desert sun, which however by superstition folk was attributed to the day he was born, set him apart from his kinsmen. His moods were absolute, too. If he rejoiced, his joy came from the heart and he gave way to his indomitable nature - he laughed freely, in contempt of his reputation of a taciturn man, his eyes lit up fiercely and he gesticulated wildly, drunk on his happiness without a drop of spirits in his mouth. Gaiety and enthusiasm are infectious, but in Nerevar they compelled others to resemble him, as they would be convinced after they exchanged words with him that those were the most attractive traits in a mer. If he grieved, he was tragically solemn and the untold misery on his face could stir a stone to pity; if he was consumed by anger, his unvanishing voice echoed in the halls like peals of thunder, terrifying menials and Councilors alike. Such was Nerevar: as sensible and sober of mind as he was foolhardy and senseless. 

In contrast to the Hortator, Dumac was short and broad-shouldered; a thick black beard, on which he prided himself greatly, decorated his rubicund good-humored face, cascading from a wide determined chin onto the richly adorned breastplate. His balding head he paraded without displeasure or shame. Among the Dwemer clans which opposed him, Dumac earned a reputation of a serene, addle mer with mad ideas, but his adherents adored him and praised him for his pragmatism and daring views on the relationship between the Dwemer and the Chimer people.

Whilst Voryn regarded the idyllic scene with curiosity and uneasiness, Nerevar took notice of him and invited him to sit on the ground by his side.

"Come, my noble friend," he said. The idle atmosphere in the palace garden favored an informal conversation. "Sit with us."

Many years ago the head of House Dagoth often warned others to be wary of Nerevar's charisma, fearing that the Hortator deliberately preyed on such light-mindedness, but nowadays he acknowledged it for what it was - an old friend's greeting.

"We can talk when you are free and eager to listen to what I have to say," he muttered with grim determination. “I see... I'm too late, my lord. The pity of it!"

"Is our company that detestable for you? I assure you that it was my intention to gather us here and mine alone. There is no foul treachery afoot, no malicious design... And we have much to discuss together. Sit with us."

With quiet resignation, Voryn seated himself on the grass and asked Nerevar to pour him a glass of seasoned Dagoth brandy.

“I wish to believe you, truly-”

"What's wrong with you, Lord High Councillor?” Dumac interposed in their conversation. ” Your expression is very, very... what's the word?.. very incredulous."

"I would speak my mind freely, but my words are for the Hortator's ears alone. I was under the impression that he wanted to tell me something in secret."

“I suppose you're not worthy of your lord's trust if he didn't say you'd be meeting with me, too. Or you'd recall that during festivities we often spend time together, drinking and remembering the war with the Northmen. Glorious times, wouldn't you agree, Nerevar? Chimer and Dwemer were fighting against a common enemy, not wagging their tongues.”

"The purpose of the feast is to celebrate a long-lasting peace between us and you do me a dishonor, arguing incessantly... You're right, Dumac, I didn't tell Voryn that I wanted to speak with the both of you before the feast, for I wasn't certain he would come. And it is important that he came. And you, Voryn... Did you think how your behavior reflects upon my honor?”

“I apologize for what I've said thoughtlessly,” said Voryn, dropping his head. 

"As do I! The animosity between our people runs deep, deeper than the caverns under the Red Mountain. Even I... I, a king! I could not refrain from a stinging remark. I am ashamed of my behavior."

Nerevar abruptly raised his hand and on his finger a ring sparked brightly. “Drink, my friends, and forget your enmity towards each other... I wanted to tell you of a curious story which I read in a book a long time ago. It intrigued me, its simplicity and its severity. And I think it is appropriate that I remembered about it just now... There lived once an old and wise Dwemer who had studied the Earth's Bones and sought the truth his entire life. He was satisfied with his discoveries, but there was one answer which eluded him and he was determined to see the matter resolved before he died. To die in regret about one's unfinished work is the worst fate for a scholar... Sil said it, not I; I am no scholar... The Dwemer went to Holamayan and there he asked the priests to summon Azura. He put a wooden box in front of her and said, 'Great Azura, I did not come here to mock you! I summoned you to test your omniscience. Is it true that you knowledge is absolute?' And Azura replied, 'So it is.' 'Can you tell me what is in this box?' Asked the dwarf, bowing low. He chose a sturdy wooden box and nailed down its lid. But the Prince confidently said: 'It is empty.' Who was right, Azura or the dwarf?"

"Prince Azura cannot err."

"It is an arbitrary choice," objected Dumac. "Such simple answer doesn't require a divine foresight. My engineers – notably, Kagrenac – with their faculty of imagination would answer similarly."

"He insults our ancestors! Tell him, Nerevar, how perverse his judgement is!"

Nerevar condescended the passionate declaration with a mysterious smile.

"Your answers are sensible yet wrong. Although the box was empty when the dwarf opened it, what if Azura tricked him? Or perhaps she had known all along that there was nothing inside that godforsaken chest. Azura is a master of ruses, and she would never allow a mortal to reveal to the world a true aspect of her... And it is necessary that the principal hero of the tale was a Dwemer. A Chimer would never ask Azura such question because a Chimer already knows his answer."

"I do not know whether to laugh or to be angry," objected Dumac. "It would have been a harmless story if both of you weren't Chimeri, but... I do not know what to think, so help me out here, old friend."

"I implied what I've said aloud and I did not intend to cause offense. But you are like Argonians accusing me of dancing on their tails."

"I'd be wary of a Chimer dancing on my tail... A tail to lizardfolk means as much as a beard to a Dwemer. You don't see beardless Dwemer often, or tailless Argonians. Chimer mangle their beards and paint their bodies in symbols, but you can tell which clan a Dwemer belongs to by his hair."

Voryn glanced at Dumac with exasperation, but he was laughing, describing to Nerevar in crude words an Argonian custom to cut off tails of thieves and criminals and the Hortator took great interest in it. "The Dwemer, however, don't have such barbaric customs," he added. "Even if a Dwemer is exiled or clanless, he is allowed to take pride in his beard. He can't braid it or decorate it and he can choose to shave it, but we don't insist upon it."

"What marvelous custom! Don't you think so, Voryn?" Asked Nerevar, knitting his brow, but Voryn stubbornly refused to look him in the eye. "I had hoped you would reach an understanding with Dumac, but it seems to me that my attempts at it were rather feeble." He reached into his pocket and spread out a scroll of parchment on the grass. The evening was nigh and in scarce lighting Voryn could barely discern a minute sketch of a map. "You wanted to know why I called you here? I invited both of you to Narsis with such secrecy because trouble is brewing in the north... Before you is the map of Bal Fell, a city-shrine on an island not too far from the city of Suran. The scouts who drew this map vanished without a trace, all but two who delivered it to us. They died shortly afterward from strange wounds... I'm worried it's a rebellion, but I couldn't call off the festivities owing to an uncertain rumor. What should I do?"

"It should worry you," said Dumac. "I recognize the names of the cities. There is a Dwemeri settlement nearby and a trade route between Mzuleft and Ebonheart skirts the island. If these rebels attack the city, you will be blamed and our alliance may crumble."

"You're quite right, Dumac! I asked Vivec's advice and he told me to quench the unrest, but his reasons I did not comprehend. With you I agree freely... Voryn and I will depart by ship without delay while you will remain in Narsis and entertain our guests."

"Why me? How should I act in your absence? I don't think it's a wise choice, seeing how some of your people look at me-"

"I can only trust you, my friend... Tell our guests I returned to Mournhold and come up with a plausible excuse for me to abandon festivities. And see to it that there is plenty of food and wine on the table."

"I'll do as you ask, Nerevar, but you'll owe me a favor." Even Dumac could not resist his charm.

"But who could that be? Who would so brazenly take up arms against you, my lord? Did they not understand the futility of their efforts?.. And, besides, what are they doing so far south? The Nords-"

"These aren't the Nords, Voryn. But who are they? I don't know... And I ask that you don't talk about it with anyone else. After almost half a century of peace, no one will welcome rumors of a rebellion."

...After they said their farewells, Nerevar beckoned Voryn to follow him and they walked towards the tall memorable arch which graced the entrance to the gardens, with a bas-relief depicting a young woman by the bed of her dying husband in the unpleasant company of the daedra, avidly, patiently waiting for the soul of the wretched fool to depart. Their eyes, albeit carved in stone, seemed to glow in darkness.

"I asked the both of you to come to Narsis so that you could arrive at an understanding with each other, but you persist in your wrong beliefs," Nerevar told him in a peremptory tone. "Now I am convinced that your delusions have a much more unsavory and sinister origin. What will you say in your defense?"

"What can I say, my Hortator? I am guilty. Guilty!" Voryn threw up his hands. "But I will not start a war because I distrust your friend. You don't have to fear treason from me."

"You're insufferable. I didn't ask whether you would levy war on Dumac, but your obsolete views hamper my attempts to keep the fragile peace between our people. We're in a stalemate, not fighting with each other and yet not truly living in harmony. It's a very brittle balance... I won't lie to you, I was tempted to send you away, but I want to do battle with you by my side. It feels like you've forgotten the time when I trusted you with my life... If only you tried to get along with Dumac, I would never reproach you for anything!"

"Then send me away, Nerevar."

"No, it is an easy solution and an easy solution isn't always right. It has to be you and not your ungracious brother Gilvoth or Araynys... No, I will allow you to stay, but I will always remind you of your shortcomings until you cease resisting." Nerevar opened a reinforced wooden door. "We are leaving tomorrow at dawn. I want you in my chamber an hour earlier." And he slammed the door in his face.

Voryn plodded his way through the hallway to his room where his chap'thil already arranged his belongings. He was a young Orc by the name of Gurak gro-Uzuk and Voryn was sympathetic to the Orcs although they were foreigners, for they were in a subservient position to the Chimer without power or voice in matters of state, and such constitution of things he respected. They were courageous and met hardships of war with stoicism, becoming brutish mercenaries or strong, loyal servants to the many noble families in Resdayn. And if Voryn couldn't trust Gurak wholly, he had insidious ways to ensure his devotion. The young Orc had a terrible secret which cast a shadow over his life and drove him to leave home and wander about the lands of Vvardenfell in quest of a roof over his head. On that long journey which took its toll on his health their paths crossed and Voryn offered him shelter, work and coin, but in acknowledgment of his care, he demanded honesty from him. Gurak brazenly stole two valuable items from the Telvanni wizards – a gem with the soul of Arkanz, a Dremora Lord in the service of Molag Bal, and a Dagger of Rebuttal made from enchanted glass which allowed its wearer to reflect magic – and if he were caught, he would be skinned alive and his soul would be sent to Coldharbour. Voryn could have tried to reason with the Telvanni Council, but instead he chose to have a blindly loyal servant by his side who would be blissfully ignorant of his master's dishonest artifices.

When Voryn returned to his room, he ordered Gurak to clean his clothes and wake him at an early hour so that he wouldn't miss the ceremony of morning dress in Nerevar's chambers.

The ceremony of morning dress was an ancient tradition upheld in royal families since the dawn of ages and Nerevar himself insisted that it should be continued during his reign after he offered a prayer to the ancestors which – both the ritual and the habit – he adopted from the Ashlanders. He displayed an odd fondness of the custom and he was very particular about how the ceremony should be conducted, giving nobles a scolding if they dropped his battle garments or clothed him in the wrong order. It began when servants, in a stately manner, brought in the Hortator's armor and placed it by his feet. A designated noble arrayed him in it and at the end of the ceremony the Hortator stood clad in armor with moon and star engraved on his breastplate, with a helmet in his left hand and a sword in his right hand, presenting an imposing sight which was embedded in the memory of many Chimer who laid eyes on him.

Nerevar's armor merited a detailed description. Himself a master of magic arts, Voryn didn't need fancy frills from metal and leather, but the marvel of blacksmith's art which was the Hortator's panoply and the intricacy of the enchantments on it fascinated him. The greaves had to be put on first and afterward a pair of boots which reached Nerevar's knees, and, lastly, the most impressive of the pieces - a cuirass decorated with a motley half-skirt on both sides of the wearer's thighs. The helmet resembled a white mask with a white plume atop of it and it was always polished to shine. The panoply was surprisingly light yet very durable, and Voryn suspected that the Daedric Princes or the Dwemer were involved in its creation, but Nerevar never affirmed his speculations.

The ceremony that morning was held in a small chapel instead of Nerevar's spacious chambers because he was in a hurry, but he refused to miss the prayer (the stubbornness of rulers!) and servants hastened to please him, cramming into the small room until Voryn, who was always peevish in the mornings, sent them away. The ceremony continued without interruption until the door was flung open and a youth barged in, not minding them at all, and cheerfully announced his presence. Vivec was tall like most Chimeri, his face was thin, like Nerevar's, but with close-set, slanting eyes and a large disproportional mouth which, however, didn't mar his youthful blooming beauty. When he smiled - and he smiled often - dimples appeared on his cheeks. While the Hortator looked forbidding and majestic in his armor, Vivec appeared sincere, charming, lively and a bit cunning.

"Lord Nerevar, I arrived as soon as I could after I received your message," Vivec whiffed a sentence so quickly that it seemed one word. "Sotha Sil is held up with lady Almalexia at the Mourning Hold, but you did not expect them to come, did you? I was delayed by foul weather on the Bitter Coast, but I am here now and I brought my best warriors with me, fifteen in total, just as you asked."

Nerevar sheathed his favorite sword, Trueflame, while Voryn added a few finishing touches to the masterpiece of his armor so that it would withstand an attack of a legion of Daedra. "Thank you, Vivec," he said. "Let's pray for a swift victory and insignificant casualties. I consulted with the spirits of our ancestors this morning and there is nothing you should concern yourselves with."

"That is most excellent news! Did you bring a message from our lady?"

"She said to rejoice without reservations, eat without regret and dance all night long to the bold sound of the golden trumpet!" Joyously exclaimed Vivec.

"Primp yourself up a bit, we are leaving in one quarter of an hour. I arranged a place for you and your mer in our vanguard and I will send Telvanni wizards to the rear while Voryn will be at my side."

"Nay, it is I who should be by your side to advise you if there is more danger to this expedition than we suspect."

"I heard your wish, but I wanted to show my guest how we fight. Furthermore, I gathered a hundred and a half or so of my most loyal mer. If you have something to tell me, distance won't be an obstacle." Vivec aggrievedly turned aside, just like a child. "If this matter is settled, let us depart."

Nerevar did not bring with him more than a hundred warriors and Dagoth, Telvanni and Vivec's guard constituted the rest of their small but formidable force. A splendid procession stretched from the gates of the palace to the enormous fountain, bristling with spears and glittering in the morning sun. As they prepared to leave for Bal Fell, a no less splendid crowd gathered to bid them farewell. Spectators abandoned their homes and shops, and rushed to the palace, each wearing particolored garments for the celebratory feast later that night, and when Nerevar appeared astride a well-bred guar, a mighty roar spread across the square. The word spread quickly that the Hortator was leaving before the feast and the citizens of Narsis were clamoring, pushing each other, and climbing on each other's shoulders in hopes of catching a glimpse of their beloved hero. 

The onlookers of all ages and rank followed them to the city gates and the roar would suddenly vanish only to resume with the same obstinacy and louder than ever until, abruptly, they came upon a scene which left an unpleasant impression on Voryn. On a narrow street which abutted upon the plaza, barring their way, a few dozen women set fire to their garments and upon seeing the standard with moon and star, they began dancing wildly, their thin and plump bodies wriggling to the irregular beat of a guarskin drum, bare breasts hitting against bare breasts, their arms swaying and feet kneading liquid mud. Unlike the spectators, they were bare-headed, and their long hair fluttered in the wind. They screamed words in a language unfamiliar to Voryn, but when two guards in the armor of House Indoril commanded them to let the procession pass, they fled into the nearby streets, mingling with the crowd of urchins and paupers.

"Who were they?" Voryn asked Nerevar who rode by his side on a well-bred guar.

"They are mad, divine and mad," he replied with a faint smile. He didn't seem to be impressed by the encounter.

"Divine and mad... What do you mean?"

"Did you look into their eyes? We will not turn back now, but as the month of Evening Star draws near, there will be more of them, dancing in the streets and hurling dirt into the onlookers. It's their eyes... You'll understand because their eyes do not lie."

Narsis ushered Nerevar to war.

***

The boat rocked, tossed about by the waves, and as it fought against adverse winds, Voryn struggled to fall asleep, imagining himself to be a ship which longed to find peace in the rough sea, tormented, as he was, by the illusory promises of blissful calm. In these long hours he distracted himself with alchemy and it had a salutary effect on him, as though weighing herbs: stoneflower buds with kreshweed, bittersweet petals, chokeweed and coda flowers, mixing them together in precise proportions, crushing them with a pestle, boiling them in a retort, distilling the substance in an alembic and then pouring pristine liquid in light glass bottles, he urged his weary fidgety mind to surrender itself to a wholesome sleep. They were a mighty substance for those who could not defend themselves from elements and in the morning he would distribute them among the small company of Chimer who offered unreservedly to come to their lord's help. Voryn had a respectable position on the Council which befitted his title of Lord High Councilor and he wasn't obliged by an oath or law to answer his lord's summons during the time of peace. He wasn't a foolhardy adventurer who chased after gold and glory and he chastised other House nobles for such trifling pursuits, but when Nerevar called for him, he never failed to attend to the needs of his lord. 

"Your room smells of rotten meat and musk, a repelling odor. But I must say that Nerevar speaks highly of your abilities so I will pretend that this is the finest aroma in the world." Vivec announced his presence with a bit of gibe, but the general disdain towards alchemy, the dirty craft, as it was called, did not faze Voryn and he got accustomed to the various unpleasant odors long ago. Vivec's unexpected visit, however, did vex him muchly, but he had to express patience and tolerance towards him.

"To what do I owe the pleasure?" He asked, rising, but the boat shook and he fell back onto his chair. Numerous glass bottles and flasks made a jingle, but not one was in danger of falling or breaking. And what if Vivec thought him a fool after this little display? "Forgive me, but I'm not in the mood for chatter. I sent my servant away because I do not wish to be disturbed. Tell Lord Nerevar that later I will be at his command."

"Lord Nerevar withdrew to his cabin for an evening prayer. Don't you know what time it is? Ha-ha-ha!" Vivec flung himself into an empty chair without as little as permission from him. "I see that you are a bit preoccupied, but this conversation cannot wait... Why do you need the empty bottles?."

"I'm brewing potions that will protect you against all elements and restore your strength should any of you tire out. And this remedy you'll use to tend to the wounds of your companions... As I said, I've got no time for gossip."

"No, it is imperative that we talk now. I take interest in every single one of you who come to Nerevar's side and leave shortly afterwards, in fear of his domineering nature. Everyone loves him on first glance, but dislikes him soon afterward." Would it be prudent of him to say that his impression of Nerevar differed from Vivec's descriptions? But Vivec continued talking and he lost the thought among many others. "Before you leave, I wish to know: why you? Of all Houses and their champions he asks you. Why? Where did you come from? Were you the one who named Nerevar Hortator in the first war with the legions of Nords? What Nerevar sees in you?"

"You are lucky, Vivec. Your questions are baseless and, frankly, boring, but I will indulge you if you, too, answer my inquiries honestly."

"Well, what do you wish to know?" Vivec grinned from ear to ear and leaned forward, regarding him with strained attention, full of expectations and hope, but there was no animosity in his gaze. "I want to understand you so that in time I can give Nerevar the best advice. I've seen you many times in his company, but I didn't have a chance to speak with you openly. Did you name Nerevar Hortator? Or was it your father?"

"I remember that day very well. Nerevar and his grandiose entourage showed up at my door, demanding I name him Hortator and somehow he gained support of six other Councilors who happened to be my brothers. But his arguments appealed to my beliefs, so I agreed to his conditions. Your other question begs for an obvious answer. I am the leader of the Sixth House born into the noble family of Dagoth Navam, my _deceased_ father, and I succeeded as a leader with a unanimous vote after my older brother died. But that you could have read in the library."

"I am disappointed," said Vivec. "Everyone who comes to seek a position among Lord Nerevar's closest servants has a story. One boasted to have slain a Dremora Lord, the other prayed to Sheogorath's statue and the Mad God graced him with his presence... whether they are true or not, matters little, you see. Don't you have a similar story to tell?"

"I could have said that I have slain ten Dremoras and Malacath gave me a gift of great value.. But what's the odds? You offer words, I offer my sword and knowledge. While you rested in your tent, I was with Lord Nerevar slaying outlanders on the Bitter Beach." He was referring to a famous and somewhat comedic incident which ended in a tragedy. Vivec overslept an important battle and rumors were afloat that on the eve of that bloodbath he was with five fair maidens who tired him out so that he couldn't fight the following morning, and from shame he feigned he was asleep. They almost lost that battle and some were too unkind to him for it.

"There is no need to remind me of my failures!" Vivec poignantly blushed. Red tinge flooded his face and in that moment he resembled a Boiled Altmer, an antagonist in a rather didactic folktale about a famous smuggler who caught a slaver abusing his slaves and boiled him alive in a deep pot. The tale concludes that no thief is alike and some thieves have honor.

"I didn't mean to offend you... Here's my question. We saw nude dancers in Narsis, but the Hortator did not seem surprised by the sight. I take it he has seen them before."

"You do not know Nerevar's story? What ignorance! Let me tell you this. Once he was a guard of a merchant caravan which traveled from east to west, from north to south, from Solstheim island to Ebonheart. He learned in his travels that in the northern provinces we hated the Nords and suffered under the yoke of slavery long enough, but the men of six Houses in the South were lax and careless. They did not fear an immediate invasion. There was great animosity between them. Men of Six Houses were accustomed to luxury, but the Ashlanders lived the lives of hardships and privations. They grew meager crops on the slopes of the Red Mountain, they hunted wild animals and made baskets from the bitter roots of coarse grass that grew there. They saw no need for the money of the men from Six Houses. But even if someone united them, the pale horde from Skyrim could not be defeated. It was then that I met Nerevar and I saw what kind of a leader he could become. I gave him council and we headed towards the Mourning Hold where our mother Ayem lived. We saw them there: they were dancing around the fountain, naked as though they have just been born from a mother's womb. In her wisdom lady Almalexia told us that they were mad. They drank from the Fountain of Forgetfulness in Coldharbor and since then their souls are half way to Oblivion, neither here, nor truly there. It's the fountain of inspiration, of forgetfulness, of impossible dreams which drive you mad. It's a blood fountain and no mortal has ever drunk from it and retained his mind."

"Why not just kill them?"

"No one knows what the Daedric Princes want. Some say they amuse themselves with the suffering of mortals... others say that they do not understand life as we do. Regardless, these mad dancers are harmless and we do not punish them... It's my turn."

"Do go on if you please," said Voryn, losing interest in the conversation. He took a handful of frost and void salts, crushed them in his fist, spread them across a piece of paper, one pellet after another, and poured them on the scales. He needed exactly one tenth of an ounce of this mixture, with an equal share of both ingredients. "One third of a half an ounce of bitter roots with the salts," he whispered to himself, glancing at the paper. "What if I try add a little more void salt? Will that affect anything? What if I add a bit of crushed diamond for another effect?"

"...Voryn, are you listening to me?" He heard Vivec's voice, but instead of answering him, he tasted the mixture – it was bitter-sweet and a bit spicy with a strong heady smell from the crushed root – and, unsatisfied, threw it away. This time he'd have to do away without the diamond dust to rid of the spicy tinge if he wanted to avoid giving his chap'thil a strong feeling of nausea and a headache.

"Can you repeat the question? As you see, I was a bit preoccupied with my studies," he wiped his hands on a simple dark robe he wore while brewing potions. When there was no answer, he glanced at the chair, but Vivec had already left. "What an impatient young man... not that I consider myself old, just... mature," Voryn whispered to himself and smiled with satisfaction, resuming his alchemy practices.

… They arrived at Bal Fell when the firmament was aglow with the first rays of sunlight. Voryn had just fallen asleep, feeling ill after he drank three potions to make certain that he would not distribute unpleasant concoction before battle, when Alandro Sul unmercifully awoke him from this not-a-dream. He dragged himself to a quiet place and vomited into the still waters of the Inner Sea. There was not one living soul near him save for a few mudcrabs on the murky shore, and he pulled off his robe to wipe bitter bile off his face. His head ached, his legs gave out under him, but he had foreseen this outcome and saved a small potion for himself. After he drank it in one gulp, weakness and pain abated, he could breathe again, walk freely, pierce the clouds if such was his foolish desire. There was steadiness and dignity in his gait, clarity in his mind and conviction in his words. Voryn rushed to his room to change his attire and in time joined in with Nerevar as he was descending the loading bridge to a small island.

Voryn displayed keen interest in but two schools of magic. Alchemy was full of alluring mysteries; a powerful potion brewed from unique ingredients held the secrets of life itself. It was within the master's grasp to murder a mer with a droplet of a potent extract, inflict wounds and cure them, give a mer strength and courage at the expense of his charisma or, on the contrary, make him more attractive in the eyes of his companions, but such illusions didn't last. Those little glass bottles contained the world of magic in a miniature form. And then there was Alteration, magic of infinite possibilities to change the world: to freeze fire, to turn water into air, to dance with time and reach the heaven itself. After he mastered Alteration, every other school had nothing of interest to offer him and he felt perpetually bored with simple formulas.

Bal Fell was an old Daedric ruin and after it fell into decay, a small city-shrine was built around it which in summer teemed with life. A tinge of melancholic beauty lay upon the scenery as the sun rose, sprinkling it with light. There was a wharf on the northern edge of the town and from there a path wound up through the valley dense with scrub chokeweed and mushroom trees to the shrine, skirting a noisy stream which gushed swiftly down and into the sea. Around it, in a disorderly fashion, stood one and two-storeyed houses built from sturdy wood and stone to survive strong winds and flood, the tallest amongst them the town hall planted at some distance from the shrine. It seemed that when the town was built, masons and woodcutters knew to erect so important a building far away from what they felt was a source of some evil.

Nerevar ordered a halt by the wharf and gave quick orders, "Vivec, you'll wait here by the wharf with ten mer for half an hour and follow Voryn who will take the central road. Alandro Sul and I will skirt the town from the right." But they searched every corner of the settlement, sifted through what little evidence they had, yet found no dead bodies, no signs of struggle, no proof that a skirmish or a rebellion or some sort of unrest broke out in Bal Fell. It appeared to Voryn that the settlers got up one day and left in a hurry, some during dinner; moldy bread, rotten kwama eggs, herb tea and a variety of stale dishes from nix hound meat and saltrice were on the tables in abundance. The air in the rooms was stuffy, permeated with the stench of fecal matter and old flesh embattled with illness or age – or was it decay? To Voryn's knowledge, two Telvanni masters of magic lived in Bal Fell and he couldn't believe that they had not put up a good fight and smashed a few bins and statues unless they led the so-called 'rebellion'. It strained his imagination that someone would rebel in a town so remote and of no known strategical importance. 

They met up with Nerevar near the town hall which to the eye looked like an enormous habitable tree with many branches. The Hortator stood by the winding staircase which led to the round, reinforced entrance door, impatiently tapping an empty scabbard on his thigh.

"Ah, there you are! Did you find anything? No? What took you so long? Vivec and I have been waiting for you for half an hour already."

"We were thorough, my lord, we didn't miss a single clue," replied Voryn. "But it's still unclear to me what happened to the Telvanni mages who resided here."

"So you knew about them, too! How did you-"

"Vivec, I'd rather you continue this conversation later. Voryn," Nerevar raised his sword which glowed in the dark, like a trail of a shooting star, and pointed it at him. Silence ensued as even those furthest away from their leader ceased talking and brandishing their weapons so as not to miss a single word he'd say. It seemed Nerevar had a miraculous influence on them; his speech was eloquent and face aglow with passion although he barely raised his voice. "Voryn, we share the same suspicion. If those wizards were not taken prisoner, they are to blame in some way or another for the disappearance of the villagers. So be wary! Be wary of traps hidden in the walls; be wary of summoned creatures and ranged weapons; be wary of powerful magic. The lord of House Dagoth supplied us with potions. Take them and use them with caution... As before, we will split up. This time Vivec will lead a small detachment into the right wing, Alandro Sul will investigate the left wing and I'll take our full force through the central passage to the inner Shrine with the giant statue of Molag Bal. You can't miss it."

"Isn't a frontal assault a bit careless, serjo?" Gurak, the Orc, whispered into Voryn's ear. The head of House Dagoth shared his view, but he had convinced himself that he would never succeed in dissuading anyone, let alone Nerevar. It was Vivec who came forward with an objection.

"Lord Nerevar, why do you hasten too carelessly into the unknown?" He adopted a proud posture and everyone stared at him, except the Telvanni leader, and Voryn, too, turned away from him, sincerely wishing him luck in that fruitless endeavor to appeal to Nerevar's prudence. "What happened here is a mystery to us. The people abandoned Bal Fell or had been driven out, the guard disappeared and the two Telvanni wizards who studied the shrine. We must be cautious... Send your shield-bearer with me to investigate the shrine. Send scouts to the farthest end of the island to make sure that we won't be waylaid by some ruffians."

 "I'll dispatch the scouts, but I have no intentions to idly sit around for hours!"

"But Nerevar- "

"Vivec, I listened to you as you asked. I also amended my plan a bit because I saw wisdom in your words, but I will delay the attack no further. Signal my warriors to line up!"

By the time their small force lined the streets in three columns, it was already daylight. By the time they set up a tent, reached the outer shrine and unwove the intricate web of spells on the front door, it was noon. The sun came out through the clouds for a while and shone generously upon the fields aflower with winds and pleasant aromas, but they did not appreciate its benevolence in heavy armor and dark garments, sweating profusely under its scorching rays. It was cooler inside the shrine, no light penetrated into the hall through the dark ceiling and windowless walls, but the strong odor of old flesh or decay returned, wafted along with a gentle, lamentable whisper. The voice hissed softly into Voryn's ear, cried, threatening him, and tempted him with unimaginable treasures – or did he imagine it?

Nerevar lit a torch and in lurid reflections of fire his armor shone brightly. Then more torches lit up along the walls of a serpentine structure and soon the column resembled a river of fire, carrying its blazing waters into the bowels of the shrine. Flickering fiery glances danced on the walls and sparks soared, sustaining enough light. Darkness retreated a little before their glimmering onslaught, howling with a hundred pained voices, and they saw a room so large that neither the head of the column nor its tail could discern the opposite wall. There were angular stone decorations on the walls, regular and irregular, and above them arched a barrel vault of obscure architecture adorned with the same obsidian triangles and rectangles which could be found on the walls in abundance. Not far from where they stood, in the quivering uneven circle of light, there could be seen a sloppy barricade or, rather, a jumble of crates and wooden chests piled up hastily and without evident purpose. Nerevar gave the makeshift barricade a swift kick, the crates collapsed one atop the other, and thereon he jumped, brandishing his sword, and roared, "Advance!"

The advance of armored Chimer with spears at the ready, the loud clang of shields, heavy boots and swords leaving their scabbards awoke something and it rushed towards them from the shadows, many bodies as one. Glowing red eyes dotted the thickening darkness and there Voryn saw dozens of Molag Bal's faithful servants. Each daedroth had a dark muscular body with a head of a long-nosed crocodile and its powerful jaws. Around its loins it wore a simple rag to conceal what was rumored to be a scaly phallus, but otherwise it was not dressed nor did it carry or summon weapons unlike the Chimer host, instilling fear in its foes with its sharp claws.

A raging battle broke out. The daedra attacked from everywhere, but theirs wasn't a chaotic assault - there was order and rhythm to how they lunged forward, snatching a shield out of a warrior's hands, and dragged their screaming victim into the dark or tore his body in half in front of his comrades-in-arms. Spears pierced them, fire burnt through their skin, but they marched forward with remarkable indifference to death.

Nerevar was in the heart of battle, fighting legions of daedra as though it was an everyday practice for him. His distinct sword flashed as lightning, cleaving a daedroth in its path, and his wondrous armor, albeit spattered with dark-green fetid blood, shone for them like a beacon. Suddenly there was an explosion and the maimed bodies of the daedra were scattered every which way, some without limbs and some with deformed skulls. The Hortator put on a dazzling display of his skill and Voryn, too, hurried to show the full extent of his might.

Closing his eyes, he outstretched his arms, and felt a surge of power, fire and storm woven together, air becoming water, heavy, unyielding, rising above them and spreading across the room like a cloud pregnant with rain, till he concluded the spell. There was a bright flash of light as this force swept through the seemingly endless rows of daedra; the shrine shook violently, dust poured down from the ceiling, and everything came to a still. Struck by lightning and burnt alive, lay scattered the fuming bodies of Molag Bal's servants and Voryn let out a triumphant cry when on the opposite side of the cavern, bright red dots appeared in multitude. Stepping into the stinking pools of blood of their fallen brothers, the daedra fearlessly rushed towards the uneven line of Nerevar's warriors and battered it down. Voryn did not see it, but he heard the screams and the crowd drew back in terror, trampling the wounded. The orderly formation broke and those who withdrew in confusion became easy prey for the Deadra.

A small island of resistance formed around the Hortator who didn't lose courage after the daedra replenished their ranks. He showed no intention of retreating until they slew their foe to the last and, emboldened by his example, Voryn, too, rallied his warriors around him; shields closed up, the fiery bands of swords flickered left and right, and he protected them from the devastating overhead attacks. Victory once again seemed nigh.

Suddenly Voryn felt drowsy, as though a mighty burden lay on his shoulders, and threads of magic refused to be woven, disobeying him even when he cast a simple charm. When he staggered, Gurak held him under his arms and dragged him towards the exit which loomed far ahead. He tried to protest, but not a word left his mouth through the lips which were as though sown together. Belatedly he realized that it must have been an enemy's elaborate curse, but no attempts of his to shake it off were successful – he thrashed about and groaned incoherently, allowing his servant to care for him.

After he left the battlefield, Vivec appeared from somewhere, shouting to Nerevar to signal retreat, but their stubborn leader refused to leave the battlefield even as another wave of enemies poured out of the cracks and crevices, sweeping over the entire Chimer force. Desperately beating the Daedra back with their swords, thrusting their spears blindly into the triumphing mass of muscular bodies, teeth and claws, the small Chimer force withdrew, tightly sealing the door behind them. They broke away from the suffocating atmosphere of the shrine and fell on the grass, with their arms splayed out, breathing heavily, inhaling deeply fresh summer breeze in perfect bliss.

Nerevar stood amongst them and his face was darker than a storm cloud.

"Why did we suffer a devastating defeat? Can anyone tell me how it happened or I swear on the names of all Daedric Princes that I-..." His speech was abrupt when his ire was roused, he often could not find the suitable words to end a sentence, either because he belatedly realized that his would be an empty threat or he never knew what he wanted to say at all. "I do not understand! Effort was required of you... courage... discipline... you needed to... you had to prevail! Was I not clear enough with you? Was I too... benevolent?"

"There were too many of them, an endless number," a Telvanni wizard (a tall pure-blood Altmer) dared to speak. "We could not hold them off for too long."

"Nothing is endless, everything begins and ends! How many daedra were there? Five hundred? Five thousand? Even that should not have been an obstacle! Have you not been with me on the Bitter Beach? Have you not prevailed with me against great odds when none could dare dream of success! Why... how..."A noble anger was gleaming over his wan face and so indignant he was that it appeared as though they, with their cowardice and lack of ability, wounded him deeply and he could not forgive them. "Someone explain to me how we lost. Alandro Sul? Voryn?"

"Lord Nerevar," the head of House Dagoth said cautiously, "whoever opened the Gate summoned a mighty army of daedra. When a daedra dies, its soul returns to Oblivion and it is reborn after some time. They know no fear, no remorse, and they will fight for as long as their temporary master commands them."

"You suggest that these meek wizards opened a Gate to Oblivion itself? It's outrageous," declared the Altmer.

"No, it isn't. He guessed correctly!" Nerevar stormed into the tent and in one sweep threw the goblets off the table whereon a map of the shrine lay. "There is a Gate in the inner shrine because there is no other explanation as to why the daedra's onslaught didn't slacken. However absurd it seems to us now, we must assume it to be true. Vivec, what can you tell me about this gate?"

"It's a small gate," said Voryn, taking the word instead of the Tribune. "We have to surmise that Molag Bal did not open it for no apparent reason. My bet is on his followers, hence it is not anchored in our realm with a Sigil Stone. We kill the wizards whose magicka holds it in place, severing the ties between Tamriel and Coldharbor, and the Gate will vanish."

"Lord Nerevar, we have already rushed to victory and it led us to bitter defeat."

"You are right, Vivec. I could not in my worst nightmares imagine that a treacherous Telvanni wizard could open a gate into Coldharbor," Nerevar was serene again, thoughtful, but something troubled him and he fixed his gaze on the table, his head bowed, his lower lip bloodied where his teeth sank into flesh. "But I was chosen as Hortator and I won't shirk my responsibilities. They lie heavily on my shoulders. I am the champion, the encourager... When the large numbers fail, I must do battle alone. If I don't return before morning, ready yourselves to enter the shrine."

After the Hortator's ardent speech, Vivec grimaced, Alandro Sul fell on one knee and Voryn outstretched his arms, shouting, "My lord, you cannot expose yourself to perilous danger so carelessly!"

"What would you do in my place? With such small force, with as many dead and wounded as healthy and capable, we will never break through the legion of daedra. Someone has to conceal himself and kill the traitorous wizard who opened that Gate. With Azura's blessing and Dumac's faithful sword, I will bring down the enemy." Nerevar picked up his helmet, girt himself with the sword which was given to him by the Dwemer king when he wed Almalexia and looked at them with the placid countenance of the determined and guiltless. "May we meet on the other side."

"My lord, wait!" Exclaimed Alandro Sul and content murmur arose in the crowd."I beg you, hear me out! Let us retreat, gather more people. It will be an irremediable disaster if we lose you today. Who will maintain peace if not you, my lord? Who will labor for the good of the Ashlanders and the people of the Six Houses?"

"You don't understand, my dear Alandro. I'll leave today with a victory and it's not a matter of discussion... And the longer we quarrel, the easier it will be to ambush us in darkness."

"I ask permission to take your place." Voryn stepped out of the crowd and looked the Hortator in the eye. "Your loss will be disastrous for the people so I beseech you: let me fight in your stead. Let me win this battle for you. Consider it... a small favor."

"I cannot ask you to do my duty," replied the Hortator, but there was not a trace of former certainty in his words. "Please, move aside, I've made up my mind."

"I do not want to sound presuming, but he's right, you know..."

"Of course, you'd say so, Vivec! All things conspire to displease me today and you're not an exception!"

Voryn turned his face towards the sky aflame with the last rays of the evening sun and, savoring the fragile stillness, drank the bitter contents of a bottle he kept in his pocket as the last resort.

While the Tribune was arguing with the king, the head of House Dagoth slipped out of the tent and with a brisk gait walked uphill where at some distance the shrine could be seen.

***

Slippery, sticky, warm mud on the floor mixed with blood and bone clung to his bare feet as he splurged through it as quietly as he could – there was still a sound but faint. Voryn discarded his shoes to be as silent and invisible as a shadow on the ground at noon, but there was no avoiding the sea of mud which stretched from one wall to another. In it the bloated bodies lay still, like islands. The Daedra hissed, slithered and champed in darkness beyond the quivering reflections of waning fire, roaming to and fro, and sometimes he nearly walked into one, but it gave him no heed as though it sensed no purpose for its existence. The ties between the daedra and the sorcerers who summoned them were growing weak...

There was anguish and fear in his heart and sometimes the sound of his own footsteps terrified him, sending him into tremors, but he clasped his hand to his nose – the stench was unbearable – and moved forward. It was an ill place. The legions of daedra did not frighten him, death, which surrounded him, did not frighten him, but there was something in the inner shrine which would deprive of repose the most courageous man alive, with a sneer offering an eternity of enslavement in exchange for the quintessence of his mortality. Voryn pushed the heavy folds made from obsidian and bound in steel; the temptation to yield to a much larger force overwhelmed him at once and he pressed himself to the door, trembling like a leaf, in an attempt to shake off this delirium. A crack gaped in front of him, no taller than two mer his height and a bit wider than a cabin on the ship which brought him there, and from there blue fires shot up, licking at the supports that held the gate in place – four thick, dark chains which seemed to have grown into the walls around it. Beyond the gate stretched an endless plain under the burning skies, but terrible chill struck through him and the flames were cold. Everywhere: in glowing stones, in trees twisted into human form, in sharp contours of metallic structures (each like a broken spine of an enormous beast), in glittering shrines reflected in murky waters and endless mazes of stairs he felt the presence of a god. It wasn't a benevolent god, nor was it an evil one, just foreign.

There was no doubt in his mind now that he saw Coldharbor. It had the stench of a cemetery about it and terrifying beauty of the world's perverted reflection. Its monstrosity and allure drew his gaze to its perilous depths and he could not turn away. Voryn tried to close his eyes, banish the vision with a volition, find an anchor in this ever-changing reality with maddening flow of time and incongruous governing laws, but he was feeble. There was a flash of light at the back of his skull and he saw - not a creature, but a glimpse of her, webbed wings, a cascade of golden hair and a stern comely face with an expression of gentle reproach on it. Voryn clutched his head in his hands and with a groan fell on his knees. A swimming came before his eyes, and he felt like a mindless husk, with no will, no thought of his own, gazing into the depths of oblivion with an unquenchable thirst to offer his soul to the lord of Coldharbor. He crawled a few paces and fell prone on the cold floor, powerlessly, helplessly watching daedra, their eyes gleaming avariciously, gather round him.

It was a powerful, intricate illusion, but he could slip out of its grip, set his mind clear and free again if he only realized that it could not be the doing of Molag Bal. Daedric Princes could not easily manifest themselves in Mundus so there must have been a curse put in place for careless souls like him to walk into unawares; and it must have been the same curse to which he fell victim a few hours ago but stronger. He remembered the lessons of his teacher. Every illusion consisted of threads – gently tag at them, play silent music, then rise, command, and send forth the destructive energies! Shaking off invisible chains, Voryn raised a flaming fist and struck at the ground, scattering fire, stones, and bodies every which way.

A daedroth jumped at him, plunging its claws into his flesh, and hung on his shoulders. They fell to the ground, rolling around and struggling to land the first blow – Molag Bal's minion twined its legs around his torso while Voryn gripped it by the wrists, trying to break its bones, but his shield wasn't holding well and blood was gushing from a wound on his shoulder where daedroth's claws first left its mark. Voryn was choking under the weight of the enemy's body and it was then that a dagger appeared in his hand. The world dimmed before his eyes, yet he contrived to stab the daedroth between its ribs, and stabbed it again, warm, green liquid spilling onto his fingers. The creature grew weaker, but it continued squealing and thrashing about and to quieten it for good, Voryn thrust the dagger into its neck and pushed the flaccid corpse off him. His robe was soaked in blood, his and the creature's; his face was dripping with sweat and when he pressed a palm to his chest, he felt the flutter of his beating heart. He could not treat his wound, but he had that sort of cursed luck owing to which he avoided the poisoning, if nothing else, and he could walk in spite of the pain. Wincing as he took each step, Voryn dragged himself away from the gate, leaning on the wall with his whole injured, fatigued body.

He was not at that moment an inseparable entity: there was his crippled body, the mortal shell of Voryn Dagoth and there was his will, his courage and determination; his body wanted to fall prone to the ground but wouldn't while his spirit wanted to soar up to the heavens but couldn't; and they could neither reconcile with each other nor emerge victorious. He stared dully at the misshapen stunted gate which barred his way to freedom, and as suddenly as it came over him, the feeling that he was split somehow abated.

When at long last, Voryn stumbled across a deserted alcove in the wall, it became clear to him that inside he would not find answers the Hortator sought. There were blood spatters on the floor by the strange device which resembled a stone basin. Behind it hung a long dirty piece of cloth and when he lifted it, he saw the bodies of two wizards and a priest who mumbled a quiet liturgy, rocking back and forth, and seemed to be unaware of his surroundings. Telvanni mages had been dead for a few days at most, but the skin has been removed from their skulls and the empty eye sockets leered at him from under the yellow bone of the noble forehead. Their teeth were gritted and their fists were clenched tightly. As they were dying in agony, their bodies had been laid on the table with macabre neatness. Their sacrifice was voluntary although it would take an imagination move vivid than Voryn's to guess what prompted them to lie on the table, bleeding, in anticipation of death they didn't attempt to fight. 

The priest did not as much as glance at him when he entered, whimpering in the corner like a child. As Voryn approached, the whimper resounded louder and he heard separate words. "Your loyal servant... Molag Bal... help me... help me... help me..." 

"Who are you? What are you doing here? Who are you praying to and what for?" He asked, observing the scene a safe five steps from the madman – who else could this man be, playing with dangerous forces like that?

"M-molag Bal, don't you see?" He cackled, trembling all over. "I was faithful to you all along! But if I cease praying, if I stop... giving, they will not come to me!" The priest shrieked, turning towards him, and in faint lighting, Voryn discerned a pitiful, stooping man of Nordic descend with a deathly pale face and wide, protruding eyes, cradling a stump of an arm cut slightly above the elbow. He was bleeding profusely and his glance dulled.

"Did you do this to yourself?" 

"Don't come near me! If I stop giving, they will not fight for me!" The priest repeated, raising a rusty knife with an intention to cut off his left foot.

So it was this miserable man who kept the gate open, feeding it the magicka of two Telvanni wizards and when it ran dry, he sliced off his own limbs. Voryn did not wait until the end of the ritual, throwing a ball of ice at the priest which froze him as he sat on the floor with a knife in his hand (or a butcher's cleaver). Then he, forgetting his own pain, rushed to the device in the shape of a tub and burnt it, too, without looking closely at its contents. Through the door, he saw the crack vanishing; fires were extinguished and with a dull sound it exploded. He put his hands over his eyes, waiting until the room cleared out, and then he just waited, not understanding his own reasons, slowly slipping into a dreamlike state, mute and deaf, and blind.

...Voryn was awoken by Nerevar who led his mer into the shrine after the gate had been closed. He learned that he was not asleep, but fainted from pain and exhaustion and while he was in that state, a healer bandaged his wounds.

"How long was I lying here?" He sat up on the hammock whereto he was evidently carried and, suppressing a moan, asked whomever would be so kind as to give him a coherent answer. "I do not know how severe my wounds are and I did not expect to be in such precarious position. I thought it would be an easier fight..." He was rambling and justifying his decisions until Nerevar interrupted him.

"I do not hold it against you, old friend," he said. "You should not be ashamed of your noble wounds because I could have been injured instead of you. You ventured your life for my well-being and for that as well as for your splendid victory, accept my sincere gratitude. That in itself is a glorious feat," he smiled, fanning his face with a piece of paper. "You will be rewarded, I assure you... don't take me for an ungrateful boor."

The air in the shrine was indeed very hot and Voryn moistened a piece of cloth in water, pressing it to his burning forehead. "I almost lost," he said. "I carelessly fell victim to a powerful curse and a daedroth tried to slit my throat. I am afraid it was no feat at all. I think I got lucky."

"Luck is an inseparable part of any grand endeavor. I trust you know the story of my feats. But what would become of me if I didn't meet Vivec? If I didn't come in time to rescue Sotha Sil? Sometimes it's just a concurrence of circumstances invisible to us and governed by... luck? Boethiah? It's hard to say."

"Luck means nothing to me. Despite knowing that I do depend on it, I dismiss the thought from my mind. I will have to hone my skills with practice from now on." He turned to the wall and stubbornly compressed his lips. "If you weren't a great mer already, no luck would help you."

"I never said otherwise. But you shouldn't be ashamed of good fortune. It doesn't diminish what you have done today and it was a brave deed... I am compelled, however, to tell you that our misadventure isn't over," Nerevar added sternly. "We discovered a door to a cave underneath the shrine. We've examined the body of a priest you murdered and we... Vivec and I came to believe that it was a ritual of some sort. Self-mutilation, bloodshed, offering of souls... It looks grim. We have to go down there..."

"You are asking for my assistance."

The hammock underneath him sagged as Nerevar took a seat by his side. Voryn glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, but found nothing to cavil at – his humbleness and sincerity were irreproachable. He possessed a remarkable strength of character. To approach him like an equal, to ask his assistance, knowing that he would probably refuse when he could order every one of them to follow him into depths of Oblivion, was a sign of such character.

"I need to understand the purpose of that ritual and you may posses unique insight into its nature," said Nerevar. "Can you walk? I do not expect any more fighting. The wizards are dead, the priest is dead... I meant to ask if you could have saved him so that we could question him, but I suppose you did not do it lightly."

"I had to close that gate before he summoned more daedra. He was its anchor. I also acted in a spur of a moment... perhaps I could have saved him, but I was confused. Does that constitute a heroic feat? Ha-ha-ha!"

"I understand your decision and I don't intend to reproach you for it. I've seen much bloodshed, but every battle is not the same. A few times in my life I've seen a bloodbath as grim. On the Bitter Beach, in a small town named Sotha... I learned to trust my intuition, that nagging feeling that we might yet come across something unexpected and unpleasant."

Voryn touched a scab on his shoulder, but strangely it did not ache even as he slipped into a dark robe with a golden trim around its collar which Gurak thoughtfully left by his side.

"I'll indulge in your premonitions, my lord. Why do I believe you? I saw a vision before the gate vanished and although I cannot trust it to be true, I sensed an intent. The mad priest who cut off his limbs was a distraction, a ruse to hide the truth that there was a purpose to all of it. But the purpose eludes me because Molag Bal conceived it. I cannot claim to have insight into a god's mind."

"What did you see?"

"I don't know." He pressed a finger to his temple. "I don't know, but I saw Coldharbor."

Nerevar looked into his face with genuine worry. "You look pale, Voryn. Perhaps I should let you rest... But decide for yourself whether you are healthy enough to be walking around."

Voryn picked up his dagger and another potion from his reserves which he would use only if they were in considerable danger. He didn't say a word, yet Nerevar understood that he was not going to sit this one out.

In the alcove, underneath crates and bins, there was a trap door with a stepladder leading into a dark cave. An underground stream purled nearby, meandering between large boulders, and cold gusty wind blew in their faces. The air wasn't at all like in the shrine, hot, musty and distressing although rather than its quality, it was Voryn's impression of it, but fresh, invigorating, undiluted like a strong potion – drink it, sit back and feel every part of your body tingle. Vivec descended first, Alandro Sul and Nerevar followed, with Voryn at the rear, but then they spread out, looking for something that resembled a habitable room or a chest with the priest's possessions or footprints of townspeople. Vivec called for them when he noticed an inconspicuous round door in the wall with a star-like pattern impressed on it. Behind it was another door and another, the hallway stretching endlessly into the unknown.

"I have an ill presentiment about this place," said Vivec. "It is concealed with powerful magic and it can only mean that it contains something of value to that poor priest."

"How foolish!" Exclaimed Voryn, but Alandro Sul gave him a sour look and he lowered his voice. "I mean it is foolish to put valuable possessions behind a door with a hundred locks because such precautions give away the intent to hide something important. And with some effort and a good lockpick one can pick even a hundred locks."

"It isn't a door with a hundred locks," said Nerevar's shield-bearer. "It is an illusion... But you do need a lockpick of sorts. Behold, I give you the true aspect of the cave!" He lifted his arms, beads of sweat formed on his brow from strain and little by little reality emerged from the mist of deception although Voryn wished that it didn't.

Blood drained from Nerevar's face, Vivec gasped, Alandro covered his eyes with a palm, and Voryn was thrown into mental turmoil, bereft of the gift of speech, although what would he say otherwise? How would he, in a few words, describe what he saw? There were no doors in this place; a hollow arch served as an entrance and thereat lay two bodies of boys, each not older than twelve, with twisted necks and broken wrists. Not far from them sprawled a corpse of an old Argonian woman covered in deep gashes and behind her a body of a stout mer leaned against a stone protrusion, clutching at his throat, his bare chest spattered with blood. Another body, this time of a young girl, dangled from a ceiling and there was in this sight a tinge of ordinariness as though it belonged in this macabre picture. There was an elevation in the middle of the cave; rusty cages hung above it on a spiky chain and a rectangular stone altar was erected in its left corner. Two daedra dragged a woman towards that altar and she lost the will to resist when she saw what was in the cage and in front of her, and even as she was lifted to take the place of the previous sacrifice, she didn't cry. An old daedroth, with a silvered snout and scars under his eyes, stood by the altar. He was raping women who lay on its surface face down, bare and trembling, without emotion of satisfaction or purpose, but with methodical persistence because his lord ordered him to do so – to humiliate, to dominate, to triumph. One girl was already dead – part of her face was peeled off – but it didn't seem to disquiet him, as he nevertheless moved behind her and thrust his scaly phallus into her limp, unresisting body. Were there words to accurately describe this sight with the grim air of misery and death about it, deeply imbued with blood and permeated with the familiar odor of decay, soaked in unimaginable suffering and enveloped in thick, glutinous, repulsive silence which frightened him more than the cacophony of bloodcurdling screams – could there be found any suitable words to describe it all?

"Lord Nerevar... I do not understand," he heard Vivec whisper. "It isn't conquest, it isn't enslavement, it isn't theft... then what is it?!"

"The purpose to it we do not yet understand," replied Nerevar. Among them, the Hortator was the one to keep his countenance, but Voryn would not dare guess whether he possessed an outstanding self-command or he was not in the least amazed by the sight.

But as they watched the daedra from the distance, the daedra noticed them, too. While they were conversing with each other, these nimble creatures rushed towards them, climbing over boulders and other obstacles which dotted the cave. Nerevar slew them as they came abreast of him, swinging his sword with remarkable precision; Vivec hurled his spear at the daedroth which sneaked aloof, and Alandro Sul dealt fatal blows to the creatures who survived the Hortator's impetuous onslaught. Voryn just stood, staring wide-eyed at his brothers-in arms. His body ached, and the salubrious effect of the many potions he drank had worn off by then.

After they slaughtered scores of repulsive scaly beasts, Vivec and Nerevar approached the altar where all this time an old daedroth waited for them.

"Arhhhh! Weak mortals!" He roared, unsheathing his mace. "I am Amandi and I'll smash your skulls, rape you and eat your bone marrow!"

Alandro Sul ran forward and the daedroth's mace powerlessly rebounded from the bright surface of his shield; then Vivec threw his spear and as Molag Bal's servant who named himself Amandi dodged, Nerevar struck. His sword left a visible mark on the daedroth's skin, a thin, fine line dripping with dark blood.

"Are we so weak?!" Shouted Nerevar and - no, not in anger, that was too weak a word - in a towering rage, lifted his sword and his wrath - the only sentiment he had shown - drove away Voryn's irresolution somehow. "Crush my skull? Eat my bone marrow? Do strike me down! What are you waiting for? Are you frightened because I have this piece of metal in my hands unlike these children whom you slaughtered for your master's whims?!" With each word, he swung his sword wilder and wilder, and the daedroth retreated further and further from the altar. "Or you'd fear me even if I had no weapon in my hand because I do not care whether I live or die today and thus I fear you not!"

The combatants encountered each other with utmost fury; daedroth Amandi, seeing that there was no escape from the wrath of a puny mer in front of him, lunged at him with all the strength he could muster up, but Nerevar deflected a heavy strike after a heavy strike with steady confidence. They exchanged a few blows before Amandi awkwardly stepped backwards, barely avoiding Nerevar's curved blade whose tip was too close to his chest. He found himself in a favorable position, however, and from there he delivered a blow to the Hortator's head, which would have hit him if he hadn't raised his shield in time. Metal struck against metal; a loud thud was heard and Voryn, with bated breath watching them struggle for supremacy, covered his ears. Nerevar, breathing heavily from anger rather than fatigue, shouted: "That doesn't... sound... right, does it?!" He missed a stroke which landed on his splendid armor, leaving a small indentation on it, but he didn't visibly stagger. "...One weak mortal... wounded... a mighty... daedra!" Then he raised his blade above his head and brought it down upon his enemy with all his might. Amandi stepped to the side and nearly fell, but in the Hortator's defense there appeared an opening of which the daedroth availed himself, hurling sharp icicles towards him with great force. Nerevar hid behind his shield which now shone softly, pressing forward with his frantic attack, and when the rain of ice subsided, they saw he was unharmed and the tip of his bloodied sword pointed to a bloody lump of flesh which was not long ago Amandi's hand. And they, with joy in their hearts, knew who had won. Without a sound, the daedroth jumped into the river behind them and was seen to sink to the bottom. No one pursued him in fear of being dragged under water by the treacherous currents in heavy garments or, as was true of Voryn, they lost their courage and so it could be in all fairness said that the battle of Bal Fell was over.

Voryn had a moment of respite to gather his thoughts and somehow make sense of what he had seen, but it wasn't easy for him to come to terms with it. The Chimer were a long-living people and they lost their lives senselessly by the hands of an enemy whom they would never fight or bring to justice – the thought of it didn't sit well with him. He felt a deeply personal desire to see that old daedroth suffer in every imaginable way. He would never confess his desire to Nerevar or Vivec as they had other matters to worry about, but perhaps such thought did also flash across the Hortator's mind.

They tried to save women who still lived, but they slipped into Oblivion, keeping terrifying silence and staring mindlessly into the distance. The nude dancers on the square in Narsis had the same mindless expression on their haggard faces as they were performing their elaborate, erratic but aimless dance. That day Molag Bal received a generous offering. The sole survivor of the ordeal they dragged out of the cage above the altar and she wasn't born from a mother's womb, but rather badly sown together from the parts of many bodies. Her webbed wings the creature borrowed from Azura's Twilight, her tail and feet from a clannfear, her arms with sharp claws and legs from a daedroth, but her torso and head were somewhat human and, too, sown together from multiple pieces. She evidently had two heads at one time, but the crooked spines have almost accreted, and only a long scar on her neck and shoulder remained from that melding. She was a fascinating creature, from a perspective of a scholar of magic, but then they did not think like that, feeling the overwhelming sadness and bitterness of defeat.

She had handsome features – for a creation, of course – and to Voryn they seemed familiar. He had been preoccupied with a thought that he had seen her somewhere and he approached her after Nerevar gave him permission to question her.

"What's your name?" He asked her as he would ask a human, but she screeched and hissed at him in response. "I see you don't want to talk about your name. What do you prefer to talk about?"

"S-s-sarmah... " she whispered. "Ting-tang... say-something-mean-nothing..."

"What's the meaning of all this? Tell me! I order you!"

"Four souls taken by force, four souls offered willingly," she said without a lisp. "Seven souls received, one missing... will you give me your soul so that I can be whole again, Sarmah-h?"

"Why do you need our souls?"

"It's a waste of time," said Nerevar. "I sent Vivec to inform everyone of our victory and we will be leaving for Mournhold in an hour. What are you going to do with this... nameless creature? Kill her? Take her prisoner?"

"Kill me or not... Molag Bal will be angry, he will come for me! Let me go!" She was thrashing about the cage until she broke her wing and reluctantly stilled. "Pain. Pain. Pain!"

"I'd rather take her prisoner. She knows something, Lord Nerevar. My guess is that it was a ritual of a kind for which Molag Bal needed our souls, but... " He hung his head in shame of not knowing, of not being able to make sense of this suffering and bloodshed and humiliation. "I'll question her until she tells me everything."

"How should we call her?"

"No name was given to me, I do not deserve a name!" She screamed at them, covering her face with both palms and looking at them through the chinks between her claws with one of her golden eyes. "But call me Unborn Ar."

Nerevar was exhausted and his sunken cheeks and hollow eyes betrayed him; he hadn't slept since they landed in Bal Fell more than a day ago so it did not come as a surprise to Voryn that he couldn't be bothered by such trifles. He waved his arm as if saying that Voryn could do whatever he deemed necessary and walked away.

"Unborn Ar?" He said to break the uneasy silence. "This is not a good name, strange and long. I'll call you Arun from now on." He took the first syllable from both of her titles and swapped them rather creatively to give the creature a simple alias.

"Arun, Arun. Arun!" She cried out with joy. "I have my own name now! Parts and hollows, Sarmah!" If it wasn't for the cage, Voryn could have sworn she would perform an elaborate dance like a disfigured bird. She continued to make joyous noises even as they carried her onto the ship and locked her in a cabin on the lower deck. And it was well into the day, but she still sang and hummed, and celebrated.

When they cast off, sailing away from the unfortunate city, Nerevar gathered them together in his cabin – besides him, Vivec was present and Alandro Sul – and they talked until sun faded on the steep and long shadows fell on still waters. They were exhausted, but neither expressed a desire to rest, in the small company, under the yellow light of a single candle, hiding from guilt and terrible creatures of night.

...To commemorate their victory (or half defeat) at Bal Fell, Vivec later wrote a vague and comedic drinking song for which he received an undeserved title of a Warrior-Poet, but he never spoke of what kept him awake at night:

 _"The lonely island greets us harshly_  
_The skies are dark with rain,_  
_We band together, strong and hardy,_  
_Against an enemy again._

 _Between a mountain and a mire,_  
_We march and fear not!_  
_The beasts are hungry, we have fire  
_ _And one almighty sot._

***

 _“...He Knows the Names and the Naming!_  
_He Knows the Wait and the Waiting!_  
_He Enters into every Star and Moon!_  
_He Shines through their Shadows!”_

_Beneath the Red Mountain, Dagoth Ur sleeps. At first there is blissful silence, and then they begin to sing in a thousand thunderous voices – why do they sing?_

_“On rivers of fire he comes forth!_  
_Through storms of dreams he rides!_  
_With slivers of steel he pierces the Heart!”_

_Why do they sing?_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _a sloppy barricade or, rather, a jumble of crates and wooden chests piled up hastily and without evident purpose_ \- not really a reference here, but like a small easter egg. Of sorts. You know how often you come across these piles of crates just sitting somewhere in Morrowind for no reason at all. Well, this here is it XD
> 
> [Voryn casting a spell in the shrine](http://cherrymoya.tumblr.com/post/164236934342/closing-his-eyes-he-spread-his-arms-feeling-a) \- an amazing illustration by a wonderful artist cherrymoya


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2: Mother Ayem**

 

_Can one feel disquietude in a dream?_

_There is not a single living soul whom Dagoth Ur can ask in that unending not-being, trapped in sulfur reek and hellish fire by the remnants of a god who was tricked in the same manner he once gulled others into shedding their immortality, neither truly alive, nor dead as he hears the rhythmic beating of the Heart and nothing more. The god dissolved, permeating his dream like fetid stench pervades the air, its noisome, idle divinity bursting through the walls and barricades of his soul._

_He is dead and he must be dreaming._

_But even in death, he is overcome with compassion for the foolish, blind but still beloved Nerevar: for the suffering and misfortunes which befell him as he labored for the prosperity of all Resdayn, Dagoth Ur pities him; since his premature death, Dagoth Ur mourns over him; on his sorrow, Dagoth Ur commiserates with him. Is the fierce, sincere sentiment but a figment of his imagination? Where is Resdayn? Is it a realm in the dreamland, beyond the horizon?_

_Dagoth Ur cannot understand it yet, but compassion guides him through the maze of his dream just as once, a long time ago, Nerevar himself guided him in life._

*** 

‘I rue the day when I wed Almalexia!’ Nerevar whispered to himself. ‘No, I rue the day when I laid eyes on her, seduced by her beauty, her wisdom and – paradoxically – her kindness. It dismays me now to look at her. There was once a time when I loved her, flinging off all restraint and forethought. Such needless things, I thought to myself. If you love her, if she brings you happiness, you shouldn't put obstacles in the way of achieving that happiness. And I compelled myself, against my better judgment, to love her, hoping that one day she could reciprocate my devotion. She was the mother of my people, the queen!’

The king of all Resdaynia leaned against the wall and slipped a large bronze key into a keyhole, turning it until it clicked twice. The door opened into a spiral stairwell which ended abruptly after three complete loops and thereat stood a guard, neither more nor less than a silent, immovable statue. Nerevar greeted him and went deeper into the bowels of the Mournhold palace. It was here, in the intricate webbing of the underground tunnels which no one memorized or depicted on a map, away from obstreperous, fidgety embodiments of life, that Sotha Sil – the mage recluse – abandoned himself to the studies of all wondrous and hidden. When the palace guard was out of earshot, Nerevar continued his mournful monologue.

'She must have been preparing it for a while. Were it not for my frequent absence from Mournhold, she would still be preparing for a moment when she could say those treacherous words freely in front of the councilors without ramifications. Did she offer archmaster Melen lands outside Vvanderfel? Or perhaps military aid in their never-ending conflict with Hlaalu? Archmagister Cardea is prudent by nature, her fear of dubious political affairs had grown only stronger after Telvanni involvement at Bal Fell. And Vivec... my naive Vivec, what did she offer you for your aid? Only Sotha Sil wasn't involved in her scheme. Him I must persuade... like a beggar on the street counting loyal adherents like coins...'

Nerevar passed by a tall statue to Boethiah, its features resembling both the woman's and the man's, which was portrayed brandishing a notched sword, and from there the path steadily descended until it was naught more than a narrow strip of land before his eyes. The mossy walls around him were dripping with moisture whose origin he never contemplated before this very moment, as he was passing by the sculpture to their patron deity, its carving so meticulous and minute that wrinkles could be seen on her face - in Nerevar's mind, Boethiah appeared a woman, a heroic merciless temptress – and he concluded there was an underground current somewhere nearby. Why did it matter to him? A hundred times he came down to see his teacher and no paltry thoughts of such kind troubled his weary mind, but they were important to him all at once, as if he could no more dwell on the sheer enormity of the betrayal than confine himself to his room.

At the end of the path, Sotha Sil's dwelling came into view, dry and barren, and devoid even of a modicum of comfort. It was a cave, but in his surroundings Nerevar always noticed traces of magic – a wall too smooth or an unnatural prominence which would soon disappear or a device of intricate design, huffing and puffing, and cluttering about. This time it was an odd contraption in the shape of a large sphere from which protruded a metal body of a Dwemer warrior with a sword in its hand, its spine and arms thin as twigs.

“A fascinating creation, isn't it?” Sotha Sil towered above an artificial table whereat he examined another sphere, tall, slim and battle-scarred. Nerevar knew him to be the darkest among the sons and daughters of Veloth: the ardent sun of southern provinces burnt his swarthy, bony face with a thin nose and high, hollow cheekbones. He had a scar on his face ever since his village went up in flames; his family perished, his house burnt to the ground, his lord and father was slain in front of him and he survived with a scar which was not large enough to be a deformity, but it twisted his formidable mouth into a permanent disdainful half-smile. In spite of it, he was regarded among women as a wonder, which attributed to his popularity, but to their dismay he expressed little interest in amorous affairs of any kind. In it he was Vivec's opposite whose flighty, wayward, conceited nature often got him in various trouble.

“You are a godless man,” said Nerevar, his countenance grim. “Your obsession with forbidden magics cannot be severed from you any more than a tiny bubble of air in your blood. Doubts gnaw at your heart, but spurious pride doesn't let you abandon your studies... that kind of pride which brings the strongest man to his knees.”

“Your accusation rings hollow. I worship our gods, but I do not presume upon their magnanimity. And you don't believe in your own words just the same... I studied these animunculi and I pondered over the secrets of their creation. And so much I understood at last. Look at her, for instance.”

The strange creature they brought from Bal Fell was here, too, on Sotha Sil's insistence, and Nerevar felt her gaze fixating on him as he entered. She would look at him through the thick grating of her cage, pleading wordlessly to set her free, to return her to her beloved master, but he would always turn away, indifferent to her despair. She reminded the king of his utmost failure to shield his people from the calamities with his own body, and a few weeks ago, he screamed at her in frenzy only to be met with the same unfeeling response.

“What have you learned, Sil?” Nerevar asked, feeling a surge of pride for his incorruptible companion.

“It was written in the ancient times that our World assumed the shape of an enormous, immeasurable Wheel, with Nirn at its center, as a sort of a hub whereat the spokes, known to us as the Earth's Bones, intercept. Whether it is true or an insane image in a troubled mind of a scribe I cannot decide, but the theory of a soul gradient is doubtlessly correct. Mudcrabs and other animals possess lesser souls than we, Chimeri. A daedroth's soul can fit into a large gem while Sheogorath's is colossal, unfathomable... Nirn is a product of a design, which we call creation, and at its pinnacle – or should I say on the outer rim of the wheel - reside the primordial spirits. You should rejoice, Nerevar, for I have just proven... not the existence, but the necessity of a god!”

“I am simply jubilant! But do go on...”

“If creation of Mundus began with an architect like Lorkhan or Magnus, then our spirit is a construct ten, twenty, two hundred gradients below the divine. We are not their equals, after all. We are shadows, paint dabs of a sacred artist on the canvas of the world!” Sotha Sil cried out, driven into ecstasies by his conclusions. “But, say, someone – Molag Bal or Mehrunes Dagon – attempted to foil the architect's design. Imagine a mathematically impossible equation: one and one does not make two. Imagine anti-creation. Four souls taken by force, four souls offered willingly...”

“But for what purpose? What would Molag Bal dream to achieve by performing gruesome rituals for melding souls?!” Exclaimed Nerevar. “By Azura, what have I done to invoke wrath of all the gods in the realm?! Almalexia and now you... I hear ill news today of which yesterday I haven't had a clue. Not even a foreboding!”

“Nerevar, you are a king so behave kingly,” replied the mage-recluse. “Don't swing your arms frantically. Calm yourself and tell me what it is that bothers you so.”

It was always unnerving to see Nerevar's gaiety eclipsed by sudden aloofness. It would take possession of him, grim and resolute, at a glimpse of a suspicion aroused by one misspoken word. It was a nightmare that seeped through the lattice of reality shaped by his troubled mind. He never wanted it. What worse torture could one imagine than suspect his stalwart friends of perfidy? The king involuntarily found a ring on his finger and stroked its elegant lines. It reminded him of a god's promise, cold and unbroken as the moonstone, and abound with obscure mysteries akin to swirls of silver beneath its fragile surface.

“You are a godless man,” the king said, choosing his words with care. “I repeat myself but for one reason. It is to warn you that some riddles exist only for the Three to understand until such a time that they deem us worthy of such knowledge. Curiosity may become your most cruel foe.”

“At first, we speak of Almalexia, and now we return to the subject of my suspect ungodliness. Your imagination is like a frog, jumping to a fro in a deep morass of your mind. What have I done that is so ungodly?”

“You are worse than my friend Dumac. He doesn't believe in gods or ancestors. His simple world is governed by the laws of rationality. But you... you seek to uncover the secrets of creation and thus you shatter a god into a myriad little pieces, you examine him with a magnifying glass, you measure him, dissect him. And in that instant you cannot curb your craving to imitate him... Did you attempt to repeat the ritual?”

“Your mind is filled with such morbid thoughts,” said Sotha Sil indignantly. “I do not know how to recreate this hapless creature and I do not intend to try. Who do you take me for, a fool? A murderer? Of course it's entirely possible to summon lesser daedra from Oblivion. But I would have to be an idiot to consider the possibility of success in such an endeavor! An imbecile!”

“The wheel of which you spoke earlier... Have you told anyone else about it? I am your friend and king and as a loyal friend and grateful king, I ask you to forget about this discovery. Let it be as it is, alluring but unsolved.”

“I said everything I wanted, Nerevar, and I abide by what I said. Now leave me to my studies and oblige me by closing the door.” And as Nerevar was leaving, he added, “You are wasting time, trying to play up to a Daedric Prince, whilst I try only to please my people.”

Yet no amount of platitudes could assuage the king and he left Sotha Sil's dwelling with a heavy heart. He wasn't convinced of his suspicions, he uttered them, exaggerating the man's folly, and regretted his rash words afterwards, but remorse he felt within couldn't bear the fruit of change. Even when the occasion demanded so, lord Indoril Nerevar was not prone to feeling more than brief pangs of genuine repentance or guilt. He did not let the unreliable recollections of the past events assail him and take him unawares, nor did he come to a sorrowful conclusion that his life was wicked and empty and worthy only of unvarying in its cruelty atonement for the innumerable transgressions he committed willingly and not. When he did contemplate the grand picture of everything he had achieved in two hundred years, a feeling of deep satisfaction swept over him akin to the triumph of an artist who looks at his masterpiece, the hours of pain, misery and frenetic inspiration forgotten. “The great ashkhan leads by example," once said Kaliki, the Wise Woman of Kumanishapu tribe, to the future Hortator. “When the ashkhan errs, he accepts responsibility for his misguided ways before himself and before his people. And thus his strong virtuous character inspires everyone around him. But perfection only breeds envy. A mer who does not struggle evokes jealousy. A man who never stumbles in the dark, a man never inclined to sadness becomes the subject of slander and rancor. Thus never be afraid to err. A man's brilliance is inimitable in the hour of his victory and victory is never painless.”

Nerevar remembered her wise precept as he mounted the stairs which led to his chambers in the main building of the royal palace. Many centuries later, the last Hortator would retrace the steps of his predecessor, but there could be no comparison between the two edifices which were like orphan children of one mother: a son adopted into a noble family and a daughter raised in destitute and depravity. The flat unadorned roof gave the main building of the enormous, majestic palace of Resdayn kings a squat aspect, but it abutted upon three gray towers under the many-tier roofs with curved eaves which were crowned with fancy flourishes of different shapes and sizes. The sorcerers of the crown occupied the eastern tower and the western tower was home to the few priests who resided outside the Mournhold temple. In the shade of the tall towers sprawled a magnificent garden of mushroom trees, arches and sculptures which stood watch over the secluded benches and walkways studded with golden sedge. Intricate refined relief of secular rather than religious nature decorated large friezes on the walls and entrance arches, light-gray and weather-beaten on the fresh white wall paint. But during the incursion of Mehrunes Dagon, the palace sustained heavy damage and, treated with careless facility by the ruling elite and Tribunal itself, its buildings and fortifications soon fell into decay to never again rise above the city of light and magic in its former glory. Thus an awkward rectangular building was erected between the market district and the Temple, as if cowering before the might of the living gods, and in it many people saw a symbol of irrevocable change as the lay kings had ceded the last crumbs of their power to the Tribunal.

But these events would not take place for many a millennium and from his window, Nerevar marveled at the view which the ancestors of the previous kings and queens had enjoyed before him. Upon entering his room, the king settled comfortably in a chair and in good set terms, he wrote a short letter to his wife. He reprimanded her for irascible behavior, advising her to apologize to Dumac, and concluded his message with a few lines about his future whereabouts should she worry about him. His writing was angular and dispassionate, as if he deemed the task of conveying a thought above his feelings, and his words concise, matter-of-fact. Whilst the ink dried up, he paced up and down the room, glancing furtively at the mirror, not looking into it and yet not entirely oblivious of his reflection displayed on the wall. The Hortator was aware of his striking appearance and irresistible appeal, and he did not think it beneath him to use his charm to win over his rivals, but the queen knew his wiles too well. 

After Nerevar changed into casual garments, the door to his chambers gently opened and Alandro Sul slipped through the narrow chink, trying to appear invisible. A scrawny youth among the adults, he desperately wanted to mature, but because no magic could grant his wish, he duplicated the mannerism of those around him and grew a small beard. Alandro adored Nerevar from that moment when, as a sign of friendship with the Ashlanders, he was chosen to be a shield-bearer despite his age – an illiterate uncouth child flung into the wondrous world on a whim of one man whom he deemed a savior. He was not of timid character, but if Nerevar exposed himself to danger or ridicule, he exhibited a particular kind of bravery known only to very few; indifferent to his own well-being and reputation, Alandro Sul risked incurring the Hortator's wrath more than once. It was the ultimate form of self-abnegation; to exile him away from the court was to mete out the cruelest punishment to him. Such was the short portrait of this young man who so well pretended to be an adult that even the most perspicacious minds mistook him for one.

“My lord Hortator, hai Resdaynia!” Alandro Sul exclaimed, his forehead touching the marble floor. “I bring you messages from Archmagister Cardea and Councilor Ismi and... I apologize, I have not asked you if you wanted to hear them at this moment!”

Nerevar tied his satin breeches with pleats and cast a vacant glance at him. “What do they want after today's disaster, these hounds? There was no declaration of war, but they still want something.” He put on a pair of long-toed shoes suitable for travel. “I'll hear you out, but make it fast.”

“I'm at your command, my lord.... Archmagister Cardea wants assurances, but she was vague in her demands. I understood she wanted you to swear to her not to allow 'the ignorant nobles to begin a mage-hunt', as she said... Councilman Ismi and councilman Nezam had petitioned you to resolve an issue with inheriting – and I repeat – one egg mine, three guars, and fifty bushels of yam. What shall I tell them? And, at last, there is a matter of the royal cook stealing five golden goblets from the kitchens. His guilt was confirmed when these goblets were found in his possession.”

“That is damning evidence... I advise to sentence the cook to six months of imprisonment.”

“But it's ten years according to-”

“The law? That heavy book? Or the concept of blind justice? Justice, by virtue of reason, cannot be blind, nor should it be. Corrupt justice is deserving of punishment, but if justice is merciful, we should reward it. How old is that cook?”

“He has barely reached adulthood.”

“What do you think will become of him, imprisoned for ten long years? His heart had not yet grown callous, but there he would fully realize that fate had predetermined his path as a hardened, unrepentant criminal. Blind justice is for unthinking fools... And only on the second attempt must we punish those young people with utmost rigor.”

“I understand, my lord. What of Cardea's request and the matter of inheritance dispute?”

“If, say, we would need in the future the Grandmaster's support, who would prove more useful to us, Ismi or Nezam?”

“That is an odd question,” murmured Alandro, addling his head with the king's intentions. “Councilman Ismi, I suppose, has more influence than the impoverished Nezam. She owns five saltrice plantations, three ebony mines, two glass mines and... I don't remember all of her possessions, but I do recall that he... councilman Nezam, that is, owns only a share of an egg mine and one corkbulb plantation.”

“Then we rule in her favor. You can tell Ismi in person that the guars and the kwama egg mine are hers.”

“But it isn't just, my lord! You haven't even looked at the will... I have it right here!”

“Alandro, Alandro...” Nerevar smiled kindly at him. “One day you will understand that sometimes justice is irrelevant. Who would benefit more from having a mine and a few guars in their possession? Small alms won't save an impoverished man, nor will they greatly increase the fortune of a rich woman. I, the king, benefit from this decision. I gain support of those nobles who think of profit first and then peace. I think of the poor children and the orphan children and the unfortunate children who will perish in a war, not solely of the children of the indigent noble. It is dishonorable, but it is necessary.”

“I'll tell lady Ismi the good news. Forgive me for questioning you! I am young, I am callow and foolish, and forgetful, while you are honorable and fair!” And, saying so, Alandro Sul dropped on one knee.

Nerevar ruffled the lad's auburn hair and helped him up from the cold floor. “I am king and the king cannot be fair or honest-minded. But enough of this! Tell Cardea I will meet with her tomorrow, but do not disclose to her where I went.”

“Where will you go? Take me with you, please!”

“I will be with the Ashlanders and, no, I cannot take you with me. It is out of the question.”

“But the road is dangerous-”

“Do not fuss about! If I took the road, I'd allow you to accompany me... I'll be traveling with an intervention spell, the one Telvanni wizards boast about all the time. And if one of Cardea's apprentices talk, so be it... I do not want you to go near her, do you understand?”

After Nerevar parted with his shield-bearer, he climbed the stairs to the last floor of the above-mentioned eastern tower which was home to the sorcerers of the crown. He asked Cardea's star pupil to take him to the land of Ashlanders who lived in the shadow of old mountains to the west of Mourning Hold. Kumanishapu, they called their tribe. They lived in small yurts which were herded within an uneven flimsy fence overrun with ivy and without yam fields stretched far and wide, swashing against the hedge like inexorable verdant sea. The Wise Woman's hut stood separately from the rest for Ashlanders didn't regard seclusion as punishment but rather, as a sign of great honor; in solitude, in quiet and sober reflection, they would say, profound wisdom is born. Thus to visit the Wise Woman was to willingly pronounce one's readiness to sever temporarily his connection to the tribe and the world around him and bare his soul to her. The Ashkhan was, so to speak, their secular leader. According to tradition, his yurt was to be built under an awning from guar skin together with three or four smaller yurts which belonged to his children, his gulakhan and distinguished healers. Thereat clothes were dried and fishing nets. Woolen carpets were laid on the floors inside these notable yurts and outside, by the doors; these carpets of ocher and brown hues bespeckled with scarlet and azure tracery and, of course, bamboo wind chimes were the only expensive decorations allowed to variegate the austere design of their abodes.

When a traveler entered the encampment, he saw, firstly, grandiose mountains sprinkled with snow, which dominated the landscape since the gods walked on Mundus, and then he heard the piteous lament of the bamboo chimes. To his left, stretched a row of shovels, mattocks and rakes while to his right linen fluttered in the wind which gave life to the chimes. A small guarskin drum rolled at his feet and a band of sprightly sunburnt children chased after it, laughing and jostling at each other. The life of an Ashlander was simple, mundane and orderly; a field was his home, the firmament his roof, the stars his innermost dream. He desired little and took from nature only what he needed. Before Nerevar met them, he could not conceive of an existence so natural, careless and liberated from pangs and twitches of conscience and on understanding them, he was seized with both umbrage and fascination. He could never entirely rid himself of that sullen resentment, but he understood that partly it was aroused by jealousy and partly by genuine indignation at their irresponsible, indifferent existence. The Hortator tried to induce them to action, but ever since the Ashlanders stood by him in battle, bled and died for him, he wouldn’t say one word of reproach to them.

When Cardea's pupil completed preparations for her teleportation spell, it was already evening and Nerevar found the Ashlanders readying a feast: a hunter brought a bloodied guar carcass to the fire, the tribesmen wore bejeweled garments trimmed with fur and gimp, and tribe leaders sat under a saffron-yellow canopy, the wise woman to the left of the ashkhan. A young Chimer beat the guarskin drum and to the staccato rhythm, the old wise woman intoned a prayer which was also a story, telling them of the beauty of Moonshadow and severe kindness of the great and terrible Azura, and the vast of green fields, and the tumultuous pitiless deep. Kaliki was old and withered, but with her face aglow in reflections of fire, she seemed to have claimed her youth from the clutches of time and solemnity from a goddess. Nerevar quietly took a seat by the fire and hearkened to Kaliki's words. What prompted him to seek out the Wise Woman in the hour of uncertainty? They haven't seen each other for some years, but she grew accustomed to expect either prolonged silence from him or persistent visits every day for a week or so. His erratic behavior didn't unsettle the Wise Woman, and she always greeted him with a kind word or a sound advice as if he were the son she could never have. 

But the king had scarcely contrived to set aside his worry and suspicions and enjoy the evening when the air around him began to tingle and fold, like a piece of ordinary cloth, and with a soft burst of bright light, extinguishing the feast fire and frighting the Ashlanders, the spell dissipated, revealing a tall buxom woman in a halo of long red hair. It was Almalexia.

***

The Wise Woman lived in a spacious clean well-lit yurt with only a table, a straw mat, a basket and a few sacks of herbs in it which served her as furniture. Atop the table, Nerevar noticed three clay goblets filled with fresh water, a ceramic bowl, a pot with food and a decorative lantern which emitted soft blue light rekindled with Kaliki's magic when they entered inside. After Almalexia's sudden intrusion, Kaliki, with an understanding amicable smile of a woman who was accustomed to reconciling quarreling husbands and wives, invited them to her dwelling of her own accord, trusting them to resolve their conflicts without involving her or the Ashkhan. The Hortator was immensely grateful to her for her considerable tact.

His wife and queen hung her cloak on the back of the chair, smiling at him with complete unconcern, and if it wasn't for it, Nerevar would have thought she had not come to parley with him but to wage war. Almalexia was renowned for her wholesome beauty among the long-living Velothi women to which bold nobles dedicated poems each year, praising her as, 'the ravishing, the fair, the elegant' and so forth. In contrast to a woman poeticized as a ghostly vision whose pale exquisite forms lack the radiance of a sun and austerity of steel which were so natural to the queen's beauty and whose noiseless tread betrays the lack of assertiveness of her character, Almalexia on occasion behaved dissolutely or swore as eloquently as a prison guard, for whichever role she assumed, she comported herself with dignity and ease. But one would be ill-advised to believe that there was little else to add to her portrait than the plump voluptuous mouth, brilliant green eyes, a mane of luxurious red hair over a lofty forehead, and a bland demeanor which appeared on the first glance to hide the absence of an astute mind. It was difficult to imagine a ruler as quick-witted and cunning as the queen of Resdayn with whom only Nerevar could contend and while he displayed an uncanny aptitude for strategy, she impressed people with her extraordinary patience and won over their hearts with magnanimity.

Together they ruled Resdayn unchallenged; Nerevar persuaded, averting disasters in the Council chambers, and Almalexia threatened them if all else failed; he rendered justice and she showed infinite mercy; he led Chimer into battles with many evils and she nursed them and healed their wounds. But for many years rumors were afloat that the royal couple did not live in harmony which their vassals accepted on faith and many feared that after their marriage crumbled away, the endangered throne could be usurped by an ambitious member of a House or a n'wah.

In the morning, Almalexia announced openly to the King's Council which excluded Dumac and his advisers her intent to wage war on the Dwemer and she didn't falter at the sight of Moon-and-Star on his finger, committing an unforgivable offense in Nerevar's eyes who deemed the ring sacred. He hadn't spoken to his wife afterwards although during the Council meeting he had made his displeasure known to her and now she stood before him clad in light armor with faithful Hopesfire by her side, solemn yet not unattractive. On her countenance commanding repose alternated with divine gentleness and Nerevar felt an irresistible desire to be reconciled with her for he loved her out of habit, in spite of all offenses they had caused each other.

“Don't you recall who forged those swords for us?” He asked softly, looking out of the door. The Ashlanders recovered from surprise and resumed their festivities, paying to them no attention. “Every day you gird your waist with the sword and it comes to you without thinking, like breath. Why would you shed blood of its creators? What has come over you? How does your profound philosophy of mercy allow such terrible cruelty or is it all pretense now? The Almalexia I knew is corrupt, dishonest and rotten throughout.”

“Don't carry on so! It pains me to hear such baseless accusations although I do know how harsh and gloomy you can be. Can we talk without interruptions here?.. I would have been honest with you if I didn't know how vehemently you oppose this necessary war. Nothing would gladden my heart more than to stand by your side in times of peril and in times of prosperity. But-”

“But you chose to betray me and force me to submit, to humiliate me and belie me. You elevated me long ago, accepted me into House Indoril and to you I owe my glories, but I paid my debts in full. It won't be easy for you to depose me.”

“Do not even jest so!” Almalexia cried out and her eyes gleamed wildly. “You've always had a predilection to speak dramatically, but save your harangues for the Council. Let us speak frankly with each other.”

“And you've always enjoyed lecturing me with or without reason.” Nerevar laughed. “It is said rightly that some people never change.”

“Don't laugh yourself into fits... Nobles stir up discontent in the Council because you cling to an obsolete alliance with Dumac. And there are more than two or three of them, alas – many more! House Hlaalu expressed their grave misgivings about your policies more than once and they have amassed obscene riches in the last forty years, profiting from trade with Skyrim in the north and with the Argonian settlements in the South. They could buy a new king if they wanted, for Azura's sake! Or leave us without a drake.”

“Oh, Ayem! If I were unaware of the most prolific schemers in the realm, how long ago do you suppose I would have lost my throne? Those sacks of gold would not dare oppose me because they sold their rights to me – and even heartless scoundrels need rights. House Redoran wanted to claim a few ebony mines in the region which belong to Hlaalu Masters... Ownership and inheritance are such tricky matters; papers get lost and people are awfully forgetful... Would you see an entire continent engulfed in flames because a few Hlaalu nobles intimidate you? That's preposterous. Do you remember children who were enslaved by the Nords in Sil's village? They were little – ten, twelve years of age, no more. They were covered in scars, beaten and abused by the men and women alike – men and women from their own village. War twists the minds of men and mer, drives them to act basely... If you bring me good evidence that Dumac is preparing an invasion, I will confront him, but he would not destroy the Council which he, too, earnestly urged to create...” As he spoke, Nerevar grew pale and agitated, and his voice quivered.

“That's not all, Nerevar. I do believe this war is inevitable,” Almalexia said it absolutely deadpan. “All roads lead to Mournhold. When the politics of peace fails dismally, war has to take its place until it can be repaired. Vivec agrees with me and I hear your friend, Voryn, is of the same opinion.”

“Voryn is hopelessly unrepentant in his folly. Not all of him, of course, he is loyal, clever and waggish if you overlook his deep-rooted prejudice against outlanders. He can overcome his confusion under my guidance, but if you ask Voryn's opinion, he will tell you to battle against an entire Nirn. Would you heed his advice because, as you said, he is my 'faithful' friend?”

“You spend a lot of time in his company. If it distresses you, why do you continue visiting him?”

“You misunderstood me. His views are certainly unsettling, but as is true of Dumac's friendship, battle forged it and fire strengthened it. He risked his life for me on many occasions, with my consent and knowledge and without. To him I don't have to lie, he has seen the worst of me, and... it's inexplicable, but I do enjoy his company just as you enjoy the company of your many lovers.”

“Well, that's something you hadn't mentioned to me in quite some time,” said Almalexia. “Do you want to tell me what's on your mind?” She came close to him and he embraced her out of dull habit, gazing into her eyes and wondering why his heart was so extraordinary still. Woe be to the dull habit and tepid convenience! We long for a flutter of heart, a trembling of hand, for lips parted in ecstasy, and to know that we have lost it forever is torment and relief to us for we exchange the sweetness of love for the fixity of life. Nerevar kissed his wife on the forehead and moved away from her with a guilty expression on his face, feeling that the responsibility for the waning passion lay solely with him.

“You are free to do whatever you please and it's not a concern of mine,” he said. “As long as you do so discretely, it will not concern me for the rest of our long lives.”

“At times you didn't ask for my company, you always had a mistress, but you were reluctant to admit it for some reason. Is it because... they call you Saint Nerevar? How inappropriate would it be if someone – even your wife – knew that the saintlike king had a sordid affair? Ha-ha-ha! That name has gotten to you, hasn't it? My poor, poor Nerevar... our relationship doesn't demand fidelity of a saint and devotion of a martyr. I love you as I love my people, wholeheartedly, and when you decide to return to me, I will await you with open arms.”

“No, I've got no mistress,” Nerevar said quietly, angrily. “And currently you are in love with war.”

A shadow crossed Almalexia's beautiful face. “Your words are cruel, but I forgive you gladly. You are Azura's champion, appointed by the living god to rule over Resdayn. It belongs to you by the right of conquest. To fulfill your destiny, you must be cruel.”

“What nonsense! Bal Fell lies in ruin, its population sacrificed to Molag Bal and you rave of my right to conquest. Why did you have to follow me here?”

“Voryn, your old friend... he arrived at Mournhold this afternoon. He wanted to speak to you about something urgently. He said Azura appeared before him if I recall... I'll go now. That's all I wanted to say.” She threw her cloak over her shoulders and took a scroll out of her pocket. “Good-bye, Nerevar. And remember my words - this war is a necessary evil.”

“Good-bye, Almalexia,” he answered and after his wife disappeared, he called out, “Kaliki! Where are you, Kaliki?” There was no answer and he lifted the curtain which served as the door to the yurt.

The bright constellation of the Warrior sprawled across the sky, heralding the coming of autumn, and soon the land would be painted in saffron hues, but in the month of Last Seed nature desperately mimicked spring, dressing in the brightest and boldest of colors. The thick vines of bittergreen plant were bestrewn with tiny white flowers which bloomed before frost. Nerevar retained a few memories from his childhood and a small village – an island in an endless field of corkbulb – stood out in the flood of incoherent images: children playing in the dust, two guars dragging a large cart along a derelict road, a woman's laughter, and a bunch of sweetbarrels on a table near a window. His parents perished from droops when he was very young, but he knew that he was born in the final days of Last Seed under the mystical guidance of the Warrior, a mysterious bearded man with an axe. In his adulthood, before he became a guard of a merchant caravan, he worked in the fields during harvest and he often went to rest at dawn, watching the patterns of stars on the nightly sky as the hooded Lady chased out the man with an axe. His friends often said that the Warrior blessed him with strong constitution and gave him mastery of many weapons and subjects besides one – he could never master his passions.

During the days when Warrior constellation dominated the firmament, Nerevar felt an irresistible impulse to pack some clothes and food in a bag and travel towards sunset, as though his guardian called him into being and awoke in him a forgotten desire to find treasures and unknown lands.

“The Warrior calls for you, doesn't he?” Said Kaliki. Nerevar was so preoccupied he scarcely noticed her until she tugged at his sleeve. “I cannot guess the purpose of your visit, but the Ashkhan wanted to see you. Come with me, child.”

The Ashlanders titled him the Great Ashkhan and bestowed upon him the authority greater even than the tribe leader's. They dedicated feasts in his honor to commemorate the great battles of the past in which they fought side by side with their protector and freed their lands from n'wah or to appease the ghosts of their ancestors with gifts. One such feast took place on the day of Nerevar's visit to Kaliki and it lasted far into the night. The Hortator saw young Chimer sing and dance in front of a fire while their parents wrapped gifts into guar skin which varied considerably from the objects found in ordinary tombs. To their dead, the Ashlanders gave chitin spears, armor and shields, jewels and fine clothes, enchanted weapons and utensils insofar as they could spare without worrying about starving or grave robbers because the ghosts of their ancestors were quite alive and hungry. With the first rays of dawn, a mournful procession would depart to the nearest burial cave, carrying with them gifts more suitable for the living than the deceased.

“The Ashkhan is inside,” whispered Kaliki although in such ado she didn't need to worry about being overheard and sneaked him into the gulakhan's hut. The acrid smell of dry herbs filled the yurt, the air was stuffy owing to an iron brazier with burning incense which stood by a bed where a young Chimer woman was resting, and Ashkhan Tamal was pacing back and forth thereabout, sprinkling the modest dwelling with hot water - generously around the edges of the mat yet never on the woman's sunken, sallow face. Although Nerevar could boast but of mediocre magical talent, he understood that the woman was very ill. Her breath was shallow and labored, beads of sweat covered her forehead and she moaned softly from time to time, riveting her feverish eyes on him.

“This is my daughter, Han-Amma,” said Tamal after Nerevar greeted him. “My gulakhan generously offered to hide her here from all sorts of prying eyes... Oh merciful ancestors, look at her! She is suffering and it's unbearable to watch...”

“Hush, Tamal,” Kaliki placed her withered hand on his shoulder. “Nerevar is here, he'll aid us... Nerevar, Han-Amma is sick and no remedy of mine could alleviate her pain. I would send for a city healer, but you know how it is, he may not come... Azura delivered you to us in the hour of need.”

“What happened to her?”

“She was hunting a few days ago-”

“How many days?” Insisted Nerevar. “I must know when your daughter went hunting.”

“Two days... yes, it was two days ago. She went hunting for the feast. We keep meat in the cellars for some time before cooking it... She was to return in the evening, but Kaliki found her the following morning on the outskirts of the camp. We saw no animal corpses with her so we assumed she never got too far. We also found her weapons with her, her bow and arrows and she was clutching a dagger in her hand... Here, we kept it intact...”

Kaliki slipped a simple steel dagger into his hand and Nerevar unsheathed it. “ I may be able to help you, after all,” he said. “I am no renowned healer, but in my travels I learned how to make simple remedies from herbs. Do you see the dark trickles of blood on her dagger? If a diseased beast bit or scratched your daughter and she struggled fiercely, this would be its blood. Bring me the extract from bittergreen petals, Wise Woman.”

“Oh sweet ancestors, have mercy on my child...”

The Hortator didn't tell them how slim the hope had been and he was astonished to see the clear liquid blacken when he put the dagger into the bottle with the extract. He could no longer doubt the truthfulness of his discovery when he took off Han-Amma's boots and noticed two distinct marks on her legs.

“It's not possible,” he muttered. “I believe your daughter contracted chills.”

In that moment, Han-Amma opened her parched mouth and croaked, “Water, please... thirsty...” Kaliki put a goblet to her lips and both Nerevar and Tamal watched her cling onto the Wise Woman, drinking water avariciously.

“What do you know, Nerevar?” The Ashkhan pleaded.

“Chills is a very common albeit serious disease. I'd say it's so common that if you lived in Vvardenfell, you would have a cure for it. But how could she catch it here, on the mainland? The nix hounds who carry it do not inhabit these parts... So I said that 'twas impossible.” The Hortator wrote a few words on a piece of paper. “You will need these herbs for a cure. A healer would know what to give her to alleviate the pain until the cure is ready, but, alas, I know not of such herb.”

“Oh, nevermind! You saved her life!” Exclaimed Tamal with tears in his eyes. “How can I ever repay you? Ask anything – and I say anything! - of me and if it is in my modest power to grand your wish, I'll keep my word. I am the happiest man alive... But do ask something of me!” In different circumstances, Nerevar would say it was fortunate to find an allied leader so willing – almost bursting with eagerness – to comply with his demands, but looking at the pallid tired face of his daughter, contorted with suffering, he couldn't think of it favorably. “No, I changed my mind. Kaliki will prepare a potion in an hour or so, and I'll sit by Han-Amma's side until she recovers. In the morning, we are wiser, and we'll talk then. Rest up for a bit, my dear friend, then refresh yourself with breakfast and beverage, and we'll l talk, I promise you.”

“I appreciate your sensible words, Ashkhan. You are, of course, correct,” said Nerevar wearily and stepped into the night.

It drizzled outside and the chief star of the Warrior constellation was fogged in.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3: Azura**  
  
And where was Voryn when Sotha Sil studied the imprisoned daedra and Almalexia weaved her web of intrigue, and Vivec was caught in it like an unsuspecting fly? It could be said with all honesty that the fickle king forgot about his promise for the time being, but the head of House Dagoth did not suspect him of light-mindedness. He was of opinion that Nerevar waited for him to prove his worth therefore, upon arriving to Kogoruhn, he did not linger there and departed to Bal Fell after a week of respite. During his short stay in Kogoruhn he managed to quarrel with his brother Gilvoth for the umpteenth time and he could barely wait until he walked without wincing from pain in his shoulder. He took with him a small company of Chimer and, on the expiry of the second week, in the dead of night, they disembarked from the ships near the accursed Daedric ruin. Later that day the Hortator would learn of Almalexia's schemes.

The city lay dead, buried in dense shrubbery, with mist and moonlight its grave-cloth. Shapeless bushes rustled and writhed in the quiet wind, assuming, when clustered together, awe-aspiring and terrible forms – there sprawled a giant serpent and beside it a ferocious nix hound. Unseen presences which clung to imagination haunted the distance and tall grass appeared as tentacles twining around their prey. A thin wisp of gray smoke colored the starless sky where they piled up the corpses and torched them - the fire which should have died, the embers which should have blackened lived a sinister semblance of life. No queer noises disturbed the tomb-like silence, except for an occasional whisper and stir of the grass or sea, those ghostly sounds of night.

Voryn gave the order to enter the shrine and search for clues in whatever shape they may appear, but by the entrance door, left ajar by the company of mer, he stopped overwhelmed by superstitious terror. The black door seemed to him a gate into the depth of Oblivion, the smoke in the sky a gloom foreboding. Rivulets of dried blood could been seen in bright moonshine and pieces of broken, bloodied weaponry, but a few steps further darkness swallowed the last glimpses of light, ebbing and rippling like murky water. In simple words, it was too dense to be nightly air.

Voryn hesitated to send in anyone alone and told his chap'thil to fall back to the fire which emitted smoke they saw earlier. It happened to be an ordinary fire, nothing odd or ill-boding was seen around it, and the mystery of its origins was solved when Gurak dragged a pair of frightened looters out of the bushes. Their many pockets were filled with golden, silver and ebony jewelry of finest craftsmanship and there could be no doubt about who owned it once: the disfigured dead which were piled up and hastily burnt by Nerevar's faithful guard who didn't shirk so gruesome a duty. Voryn was overcome with disgust which no outside observer could understand, only the participant of that battle. During the two weeks since that day, he couldn't sleep well, reliving every painful moment of it when his mind longed rest, and as the visions faded, his thoughts grew sombre, troubling him more than the dreams. Staring into the fire, he reminisced.

'It was a horrid slaughter,' he reasoned, 'and the punishment must correspond to the cruelty of the act. If the culprits are unknown, justice must wait. But if the culprits are gods, justice must wait indefinitely. No mortal can judge a Daedric Prince, that is obvious to me. Yet, at the same time, an offense of such magnitude demands a resolution, the emptiness must be filled with platitudes. The culprit is known but unapproachable. If one of the House nobles burnt a village, there would be repercussions: someone would be executed, others jailed, gold or land would be given to the aggrieved persons. But how do you execute a deity? What a ludicrous thought! Is it wrong to want justice because justice isn't infallible? We do not need deceptive justice!'

'What nonsense am I thinking?' He interrupted himself. 'Our king is not infallible, but we need him. We must struggle for justice, however fallible it may be. Then what do I want? What am I seeking in these dark ruins strewn with charred bones of the dead?'

“Gurak!” Voryn raised his voice, turning away from the fire.

“I'm here, Grandmaster.” The Orc's face could not be seen in darkness, except for a pair of long fangs; he never wondered far away from the camp and answered his master at once. “Have you decided it was time to return to the shrine?”

“No, I've decided no such thing. But I'll send in thieves who stripped the dead bodies of our brave and good warriors of jewelry and gold. It's a fitting punishment for them. Bring them to me at once!”

The two looters stood before him, trembling from head to toe, but in Voryn's heart there wasn't a grain of clemency or pity for them. One of them was a stout Argonian and the other a Chimer of imposing height; Voryn considered it all the more despicable for a Chimer to loot the bodies of Chimeri warriors and, firstly, the tall thief who was screaming, 'Mercy! Mercy!' was dragged towards the shrine. Voryn locked the black door behind him and for some time he stood with his ear pressed to the surface, listening. Then the Argonian was pushed through the door with a sharp spearhead, and the darkness, too, swallowed him; two mer disappeared in it as though they never existed and Voryn understood that the shrine was a death trap. They looked inside, called for the marauders, promised a pardon and a boon, but the hours went by, they were parched with thirst and not one thief hollered at them. A true mystery unfolded before Voryn's eyes and he no longer craved to solve it for Nerevar or in the name of elusive justice – no, he wanted the answer for himself.

And so, at dawn, he summoned Azura.

It was not an easy feat to attract attention of a capricious goddess. Only in Holamayan, at dawn or dusk on a day when winter met spring, she was said to answer the entreaties of her faithful followers and appear before them for a short time, vanishing with the last sun rays, with the last drop of lucid morning dew. But rumors were afloat that it was possible to ask her for guidance on any day if 'twas not a trifling concern like a newborn's name or which seed to sow to reap a plentiful harvest. Azura exacted utmost devotion from the worshipers and love; when the summoner was ready, he needed to gather a knotty stem of draggle-tail, dried petals of golden sedge and fire fern, and burn them slightly until the smoke exuded a pleasant aroma, reciting an invocation from memory (reading the words was said to offend the goddess):

 _“_ _I call upon Her_  
_Who exists in everything and who_  
_Rules over Dusk and Dawn,_  
_Mer and Men_  
_Appear before me, oh mother of Rose!”_

Voryn did as he was told by a priest he met a hundred years or so ago when he traveled to the Red Mountain to parley with Dumac. When the final word of the prayer was carried away to the pale mauve sky, oppressive silence ensued, shadows gathered behind him, the fitful wind tore off a ribbon from his tent, but the fretful goddess didn't respond. Voryn threw more flower petals into the fire and cried out louder, 'I beseech you, Azura!' and it was once again in vain. A deep dejection fell upon him, but when he had lost all hope, a silhouette of a woman rose above the sea. Voryn could barely discern her, but her face he remembered for a very long time: a woman's face with a star of wrath burning on her forehead, a dark gaze, a small gentle mouth and a scattering of pink and lilac clouds instead of her hair. It was Azura's countenance; the immovable countenance of the righteous.

*******

Azura was undeniably one of the principal goddesses of the Chimer people.

It was Boethiah who, taking a form of Trinimac, seduced some of the Altmer to forswear their basic beliefs and impelled Veloth to lead an exodus of an entire tribe to the distant lands of Resdaynia, and it was Mephala who taught these _changed ones_ how to fend for themselves, but only Azura helped them understand the esoteric mysteries of that profound change. Boethiah and Mephala had laid a headstone while Azura built an indestructible house upon it. The notable Chimer scholars considered it fashionable to conduct heated debates on the importance of each of the aforementioned Daedric Princes in the founding of Resdayn. Azura's popularity remained unmatched for two hundred years. Once a learned Chimer from the famous Dwemer city of Kherakah which was one of the most secluded and mysterious places in Vvardenfell wrote to a Telvanni scholar about her suppositions on the origins of Azura's connection to the rose. In Kherakah, the Dwemer arduously studied the teachings of Kagrenac, the Chief Tonal Architect, but as long as Azura was glorified, all was allowed (even a bit of unorthodox thinking).

Voryn could not doubt the veracity of Azura's words. For a Chimer to deny his goddess unconditional faith meant to reject himself; cutting off a limb or two would seem to him more rational. If he beheld the living deity in person, religious fervor would fill his heart and it was unthinkable to suspect him of harboring doubts when he should feel rapturous joy. But Azura's words were incredible and Voryn's mind reeled when he tried to grasp their meaning alone, in a frail boat which carried him to one of the islands south of Bal Fell. Their vague simplicity inveighed him, their amazing complexity confounded him.

“Listen to my words, mortal, and listen carefully,” Azura told him as he knelt before her, morning dew on his palms and dirt under his robe. “It is I, Azura, who had closed off the shrine for evils abound in it which no mortal should see. Death is the punishment for anyone who dares open it. Tell Nerevar to seek answers elsewhere and call my priestesses to the shrine to cleanse it from the foul magic of Molag Bal's priests... My champion, Nerevar, can withstand that evil,” the goddess continued. “He is a man of remarkable character; evil doesn't interest him. I gave him power, wealth, youth, and wisdom and demanded in return but one notorious quality of a Chimer – curiosity. The numerous _ifs_ and _hows_ and _whys_ do not test his soul. But it is not my intention to protect him from the many dangers which lurk in the shadows. If he seeks my wisdom, tell him to travel to the ancient burial ground on the slopes of the Red Mountain and retrieve for me a book titled 'Ten Revelations of Azura' from an impertinent priestess who stole it from my temple. Afterwards he is to return that book to the library in Mournhold. He must summon me at dawn of the next day and I'll tell him what he needs to know. Farewell, mortal, for the power of the summoning ritual is weak and so is your faith.”

After the goddess vanished, Voryn ordered Gurak to board the ships and return to Kogoruhn while he would make an attempt to deliver Azura's message to Nerevar at Mournhold. The ships had set sail and soon Voryn was alone on the island of the dead, with only his thoughts and hesitation to accompany him. As the light dispelled encroaching darkness, the shapeless mass of the Daedric ruin emerged on the horizon painted in soft morning hues, taunting him with deceitful placidity of a graveyard. Life demonstrated a remarkable ability to forget even without the pool of forgetfulness which did not differentiate between inspiration and madness. To oblivion were consigned: people, cities, civilizations, gods – none were warned, none were spared, and life had prevailed. It timidly returned to Bal Fell, too. Orange-and-blue birds hopped from one patch of grass to another, blades of draggle-tail rose from puddles of fresh water, crimson berries swelled up on a comberry bush, luminous mushrooms twinkled in the distance, and one could feel heat emitted by the warm earth. What does a mer fear more than death of body and soul? Why do dying fathers hurry to appease their alienated sons and solitude torments an old childless widow? Nude women, plump and svelte, old and young, dance to the beat of a guar drum, praying to their twisted god to escape a most cruel punishment – to be forgotten.

It seemed to Voryn that by some miraculous intervention he understood them at last. He turned his eyes towards the shrine, silently asking the nameless souls to forgive him – not to absolve him of guilt or to exculpate his powerlessness or justify his inability to punish the culprits, but to forgive a transgression more terrible in his view than the aforementioned faults. In ten, twenty years, Voryn would not remember any of them and neither would Nerevar or Vivec, and their suffering would be a dark cloud to momentarily hide the brightness of a pristine sun, a flutter of a shadow in the corner of an eye, an occasional misspoken word – it would dissipate and disappear from their memory.

Preoccupied with uneasy thoughts, Voryn rose from the ground and drew on it a figure with a sharp end of a stick to calculate the coordinates of a place he would have to choose for the teleportation spell to work properly. Upon the figure he depicted the three main constellations and highlighted the main star of the Warrior since it happened to be the first day of Last Seed. Teleportation spells were known for their instability; if the caster did not utter an incantation in close proximity to the destination, he could not predict which direction he would travel. Voryn found a reliable location somewhere in the sea, on one of the small islands which surrounded Bal Fell in multitude and with deliberation headed down a path near the stream to the wharf whereat he hoped to spot a fisherman's boat. He didn't hope in vain for immediately he noticed a wooden hull lying carelessly on a stony beach. Sacks of dried herbs and saltrice were scattered about the boat and an oar was attached to its side. By the time Voryn who was never of particularly robust constitution pushed the wretched vessel into the sea and emptied it of all cargo with no small difficulty, he was tired and wet through and through. He hadn't eaten since he landed in Bal Fell and when he left the shade of the copse, he felt dizzy under the sweltering sun, but the hour was late and he would rather be tormented by hunger than his own conscience which impatiently urged him forward. In such matters even a smallest delay could result in a deadly confrontation between mighty forces of fate and chance.

Voryn rowed awhile against the tide and then it was fog which impeded him, but in less than an hour since he left Bal Fell, his boat slammed into a rocky shore and he allowed himself to rest a bit. He gazed into limpid waters and he saw clearly the sea shells and the small fish until it was frightened away by a dreugh who did not dare attack but watched him from afar; he gazed at the bending sky and counted birds as they fearlessly pecked at the stones beside him; and in it, for a moment, he found some measure of consolation. Then he uttered the incantation and walls of the temple ousted the sea and its inhabitants from view.

At the temple, one of the priests kept him longer than usual and when he returned to the palace, Alandro Sul invited him to the audience chamber decorated in heavy velvet and told him that Nerevar had just left for the Ashlander camp and that he was welcome to wait for the king for as long as he wished. And so Voryn stayed at the palace in Mournhold.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4: As flesh, or as dust**

In his sleep, Nerevar wandered about the realm of Moonshadow.

He walked among the stupendous trees which carried the firmament on their mighty branches, gazing at the graceful ships furrowing the endless sea of azure, at the flowers of unutterably beautiful shapes and many-colored wondrous beasts; and he smelled pine sap in the air and the most exquisite perfume, and he beheld waterfalls which glistened as precious gems, having for the background verdant carpets of grass which blended with the emerald heaven; and he watched storms tear the flawless fabric of the sky and besprinkle the land with starlight; and he woke, bearing an impress of it like a scar on his soul – an impress of a realm which was Padomay and LKHAN, and antithesis.

Moonshadow knew no seasons, but it changed imperceptibly like the hues of an enraged sea or all at once, dazzling him with its effulgent colors, suffocating him with its giddy smells. Wherever Nerevar went, all roads converged on a palace which was visible to the eye at some distance, but as he approached it, it dissipated around him like rose-colored smoke. When he entered the palace, soft darkness enveloped him and he saw or heard naught more until he awakened in the morning, shivering.

When you enter into Oblivion, Oblivion enters into you.

Nerevar knew a few Khajiit with a 'sweet tooth' during his days as a guard of a merchant caravan, but they gave him a bewildered look when he asked them about his visions of then unknown to him origin, calling him in jest, 'that elf who's wilder than a skooma cat'.

Ashkhan Tamal woke Nerevar in an ungodly hour, when the bloody edge of Masser was still visible in the sky, severing his connection to Oblivion before he climbed the thousand stairs which led to Azura's abode. The Hortator began to say, 'What are you about!' to express his vexation to the Ashkhan, but his face shone with genuine happiness and Nerevar did not want to darken so rare a moment with petty squabbles.

“Han-Amma is well,” Tamal said to him, “and I am immensely grateful to you for your timely help. The Wise Woman mixed the herbs in precise proportions, just as you told us, and the cure immediately alleviated her pain. She suffered no permanent damage to her health... She called for you when she felt better. She is sensitive and extremely polite. When she realized to whom she owes her recovery, she wanted meet to you at once.”

“It's not whatsoever necessary to thank me personally,” objected Nerevar, yawning. The impossible visions of Moonshadow were with him, he only needed to lay down his head and the rustling of snow-white leaves would fill the air.

“Sometimes people are forgetful of good manners but not my daughter. Good manners and education make a good Ashkhan... Don't be surprised that I talk to you about it now. I am old, older than Kaliki although age hadn't impaired my sight or hearing and I feel my days are at an end. I want to leave my tribe in her good gentle hands... That is my only wish, I say so freely. It's a bit of an uncommon decision on my part, but with your support there will be few objections to my choice of Ashkhan. And she'll be loyal to you as was I, don't worry...”

“You want me to put my unquestioning trust in her, but trust and respect have to be won, not granted like charity without cause. Prove to me... or better yet, let her prove to me that she can rule responsibly and tactfully, and I'll have no reason to refuse you. But I won't tell you with utmost certainty that-”

“You've said it all, Nerevar,” replied the Ashkhan, grinning slyly. “But if you talk to her, you won't be disappointed. Her skills with bows and knives are without match and she knows remedies for a wide variety of local illnesses while her manners and tact are like that of a noble lady.”

“I accede to your request, but I can't promise you that I'll find her to my liking.”

“You did agree – I can't ask more of you!”

Tamal signaled Kaliki and she brought in Han-Amma, a young woman of low stature with sharp features and large slanting watery eyes whose color Nerevar couldn't quite name. She wore a simple woolen frock with purple trim and mauve ornaments on the sleeves which would suit any woman regardless of rank and a fancy headwear which exposed her freckled forehead. After she bowed to him, she adopted a proud posture, awaiting permission to speak.

'She is obedient and good-looking,' thought Nerevar with displeasure. Tamal's daughter possessed neither the grave and majestic character of Almalexia, nor the serene dignity of the Wise Woman who had forsworn, with the most solemn of oaths, simple pleasures, marriage and children so that she could advise her people on spiritual matters. But a father imagines his daughter's beauty peerless, her virtue singular, her achievements remarkable.

“I would like to express my profound gratitude for your help, Great Ashkhan,” said Han-Amma. “And I would like us to pray to our ancestors for my swift recovery... Blessed be our ancestors and those who will leave us today, unwittingly. May they depart from our modest houses and find peace in Azura's palace which is infinite in size.”

“In the House of Stone,” intoned the Ashkhan in the hallow language of Veloth.

“Hear me out, ancestors, hear me out!” Han-Amma continued chanting, swaying to and fro like a flower stem in the wind. “Accept my gratitude, ancestors, and hear me out. I come from Resdayn, our blessed land, under the Moon and Star. I give you today my joy and love, carry it wide and far.”

Nerevar grew accustomed to the odd hymns and songs of the Ashlanders whose meaning he barely understood and rather than understand them he chose be entranced by their simplicity, their crude allusions and non-eloquent rhymes.

“I pray for the herder,” sang Han-Amma, “who is tired and sick; I pray for the hunter who lost his prey; I pray for the wisest and strongest, and meek; And for the children I pray... Is my song pleasing to the Great Ashkhan?” She inquired after she concluded the customary laud by strewing a handful of ash over the threshold.

“Oh, quite so!” Nerevar answered with lively affection. “I always marveled at the composition of your prayers, barbaric yet heartfelt. What an interesting combination it is and the results thereof – the oral legends, the poetry, the songs – are splendid.”

“I'm delighted, absolutely delighted... Father, thank you for introducing me to the Great Ashkhan, and thank you, Great Ashkhan, for listening to my chant. I won't distract you any longer. May I go?”

Han-Amma bowed again and went out, casting a timid glance at him from the threshold. She yearned to ask him more questions, but her father's stern gaze embarrassed her and she lowered her eyes humbly, fiddling with the hem of her skirt. It was the expectation of the silent scene which he witnessed many times that displeased Nerevar and he didn't understand why it unsettled him so; perhaps the more the father's unnecessary rigor troubled him the more did the daughter's blind obedience and the scene produced a profoundly disagreeable impression of him.

“She's too shy and humble and a leader needs to comport herself with authority,” said Nerevar. “And you have to let her say what she desires. It doesn’t say much for her that she cannot speak her mind! Let her enjoy a wide freedom...”

“But you know our customs,” objected Tamal. “Elders speak first and youngsters have to wait for their turn. And we teach them to say little but think the more.”

“Customs, you say... I respect your customs, but not all Chimer do. A ruler must command respect so that even the most abrasive and stubborn of mer show her deference. Love her they may not, but admire her they must...”

“Nay, I don't follow.... Are you disappointed? My request irritated you, didn't it?.. Then let's strike a deal! I'll do as you say and you'll visit us in five years – what are five years to a Chimer? – and you'll talk to her again. If my daughter's upbringing satisfies you, you'll support her once she's chosen to be the new Ashkhan after my death.”

“I'll promise my support to you if she impresses me,” said Nerevar and in his eyes glanced a lurid light. “I gave you a definitive answer and I won't stoop to haggling over nuances. It's not a decided matter by any means... But – and I say so with utmost honesty – I require your aid, too, and it will benefit both of us greatly in the future if I remember the service which you rendered me.”

“You are strikingly frank with me and I've always liked that about you. No beating about the bush with you!”

“Walk with me,” said Nerevar, lifting the drapery which hung over the entrance.

The mornings in Last Seed were chilly and misty, the fog so dense that the meager light could not penetrate it. The Ashlander camp was waking: shepherds kindled the firewood, hunters sharpened their weapons, fishermen gathered their nets, and owing to the early hour and the heavy mist, the metal clangs, the footfall, and the crackling of fire resounded loudly in morning stillness. A few young Ashlanders, men and women alike, danced to a frenzied rhythm of a guar drum around a pile of weapons, armor and utensils which their parents gathered the day before.

“A pragmatic tribe leader inside of me protests such a waste,” said Tamal with a wry smile, “whereas my religious inclinations approve of it, for I have long since grasped the necessity of such sacrifice. Do you think of something as both necessary and appealing as well as objectionable and wasteful?”

“It can be said fairly about our attitudes to love, friendship, honesty, and so on – they are equivocal whereas we desire certainty. I'll tell you of one... his name is Galmis Hlaalu and he is the Grandmaster of House Hlaalu. He committed acts of treachery against me – of that I have little doubt and just as little proof. He had vehemently opposed my policies since I ascended the throne and united a divided Resdayn. 'There is no need for Hortator in times of peace,' he says and he errs in that belief that the Hortator is but a champion. What do you champion for in times of peace?.. But they need me, their Hortator, because I exhort, I encourage, I inspire... And he doesn't understand the significance of that role. What happens after an Ashkhan dies? The tribe chooses another Ashkhan; it stands to reason that no one will think that they don't need a new leader. A Hortator is not solely Nerevar, its notion is distinct and superior to my mortal body.”

“And what can an Ashkhan do for the Hortator?”

“Galmis Hlaalu does not take bribes like many Councilors do, nor does he allow his servants to participate overtly in smuggling or skooma trade. Alas! It would be easier if he was corrupt... The Hortator asks the Ashkhan to bring the Grandmaster to ruin if the said Grandmaster had disgraced himself with betrayal. The Hortator does not know whether Galmis Hlaalu is guilty of treason, he wants certainty if unforeseen circumstances were to arise and alter the favorable course of events... Did I paint a feasible picture with a few words?”

“I am beginning to understand the purpose of your speech,” said the Ashkhan, “and I can't say that I dislike that picture of yours. No, not at all...”

They talked for another hour or so and the Ashkhan gave Nerevar an amulet – Teeth of Kumanishapu – as a token of friendship between House Indoril and Kumanishapu tribe although he required no such symbols. Acute need in that relationship was in itself a pledge. It brought them together: Nerevar regained confidence that he could mend the fate of his kingdom again and the Ashkhan envisioned his daughter acting as the tribe leader, and what bonds were firmer than those born out of need and strengthened by fierce pride which characterized both of them?

***

By the door to Nerevar's bedchambers, as the word of his return to Mournhold spread, gathered a crowd of petitioners and petty nobles who displayed lavishly their tawdry garments embellished with cheap jewelry and postured arrogantly for their peers to conceal the miserable state of their wealth.

The shameless nobles would usually cram into a narrow waiting room, but that morning they clustered together by the entrance, at some distance from the door to the Hortator's chambers. The sight of two mighty warriors in golden armor didn't frighten them and they hurled insults at them if the waiting became unbearable, though the imperturbable guards didn't deign any one with a response. Bare walls of greenish stone roused but melancholy and stifling heat oppressed. Yet when Voryn squeezed through the multitudes of nobles, he found the waiting room empty; the throng dawdled timorously in the corridor and soon it became clear to him why they behaved so strangely. Reclining gracefully on a chair of simple design, stood Cardea, the Archmagister of House Telvanni, and guarded her two dremora lords in their terrifying black and crimson suits of armor, rivaling in their immobility the golden warriors of House Indoril. On her comely face presumptuous expression blended with profound indifference to the well-being of others and perhaps more than her retinue it was her countenance that terrified the nobles. Silence reigned supreme as whispers from the corridor were not heard in the room and Cardea expressed her quiet indignation in withering glances she cast at the guards who, with their spears, barred her way to the door which led to Nerevar's chambers.

The Hortator entertained a guest, as was evident from the crosswise position of the guards' spears, and Voryn took a keen interest in that mysterious visitor who captured Nerevar's attention in his absence. He muttered a spell which exposed to him the participants of the discourse and quickly substituted it with a different invocation which allowed him to overhear their words but not see them. The interior of the bedchambers gradually grew dim, but the voices rang louder and more lucid as if he, Voryn, joined in with the conversation.

Duke Vilvan Melen was yelling in his familiar squeaky voice like one possessed. Many witnessed his narky irascible temperament, yet it was unheard of for him to behave with such senseless erratic spontaneity in the king's presence.

“I want... no, I demand the restoration of the ancestral rights!” Vilvan shouted, foaming at the mouth. “That is to say, I request the right to dispense justice on every subject of mine who had committed a crime, however severe, and I demand to revoke that travesty of a law whereby my Councilmen and Brothers can be absolved from vows if I am to rebel against you, seeking justice and satisfaction. I also ask you to lower the tax on fines which are paid by criminals... It isn't quite fair that a mer who causes harm to my House must pay you, though your lands or your retainers had not sustained injuries of any kind.“

“You have just arrived at manhood, therefore, you cannot possibly recall what privileges the heads of the Great Houses had in bygone days,” Nerevar replied with perfect calm. “And you don't remember the war with the Nords which claimed the lives of your parents.”

“My parents died for our freedom! It's no good carping at their sacrifice!”

“Time was wasted in bitter squabbles and so were the lives of many men and mer. And the rights... Yes, the Nords permitted us to settle petty disputes between ourselves, but those small privileges we had to buy from them. Every drop of blood traded for the tinkle of a coin... We had to provide annually a certain amount of gold and slaves and if we could not give them what they wanted, they took our harvest, our wives and children... Children, you see, were very valuable to them... A member of House Redoran – your House! - wrote about glorious united Resdayn, but he recognized that his illusory dream would not come to pass without a leader who, so to speak, 'does not recognize a superior'. His name is Hleras S'than and I recall he was venerated among your people for authoring 'bold ideas'.”

“He was mistaken. If we chose such a leader, it would lead us to ruin... Queen Almalexia, then a queen only in name, persuaded us and she gave us some guarantees which are now all but forgotten. And our most sacred rights have been trampled upon! Is that not the ruin we were warned of?”

Duke Melen lamented vainly for quite some time – Nerevar wittily confuted his arguments and he went into longer and more hectic rants until he lost patience. The door flew open and he stormed out, not saying a word at parting which was considered rude and ill-mannered. Voryn marveled how the Hortator endured such fooleries and didn’t for once withdraw from the insolent noble the light of his countenance, but after he was invited into the chambers, he saw that such wasn't the case. Nerevar fumed at the Archmaster of House Redoran for dwelling, to no avail, on a sore subject and his face grew dark with anger, and his gray eyes, colder and calmer than the windless sea, were fixed on Voryn as if telling him that his innocence didn't allay his ire.

“S'wit!” He spat out and added a few more foul words which vividly and vulgarly described 'a mer of dull of apprehension'.

It was futile to appeal to the Hortator's reason and Voryn subsided into the easy chair opposite of Nerevar, contemplating the room. Nerevar lived modestly but with comfort and he surrounded himself with objects which suited his tastes – unassuming and useful. He slept in a narrow plain bed without pillows to the left of which, at arm's length, stood a wooden bedstand with a bamboo candle on it and to the right – a bookshelf and, further along the wall, a weapon stand on which were neatly arranged his favorite sword, Trueflame, and his panoply. On the walls hung but two decorations: a mirror in an ebony frame with silver ornaments and a rich tapestry which stretched from the floor to the ceiling, portraying prophet Veloth not in the usual hair shirts but clad in a bedazzling aureate armor which panoplies of House Indoril tried to mimic and led him a woman who bore an uncanny resemblance to Azura as Voryn saw her. In the corner next to the mirror, he noticed an altar and upon it a plate with pearls and rubies in it. Nerevar sat at the table which stood near the window so that light would generously pour forth upon the pile of letters, notes and scrolls until the shades of evening began to descend.

“Vilvan reminds me of a talking rat,” the Hortator said suddenly and his expression was altogether different – merrier and more well-disposed. “Don't you think so?”

“Don't invent things!” Voryn replied, feeling a sense of great relief. “I don't remember any talking rats.”

“Or was it a talking scrib? I can't recall... A wizard came to Mournhold not so long ago, and he was showing trained animals to the crowd. We were passing by and I found it amusing that even rats could be put to good use.”

“You are talking about a pack rat. It could carry some small equipment on its back. But, alas no, that rat could not talk – that would be a sight I'd pay gold to see.”

“Are you sure of it? There were no talking rats? Ah, nevermind... Duke Melen's rudeness offends me and I'll thank the Three if I don't hear that squeak of his voice again.” Nerevar signed a few papers and silently glanced over a letter. “Voryn, will you reap a bountiful harvest this year?” He asked, changing the subject abruptly. “In a letter Galmis Hlaalu blames me for his scanty harvests although the head of House Dres reported that her plantations will yield less grain and salt rice than usually. I've worked in the fields some three hundred years ago and I know that rainy weather and strong winds can ruin crops. Galmis says that his fruit rots because of my attempts to outlaw slave labor.”

Voryn decided wisely not to ask the Hortator about the subject of his talks with Melen so as not to give himself away, for his impertinent application of illusion spells could earn him three years in prison if not exile.

“As you said, lord Nerevar, House Dres complains of poor crop, too, although they retained the right to own slaves.” He let out a hearty chuckle. “No, my lands on the Azura coast will yield richly this year. And after I began paying miners, they produced enough ebony to supply with weapons a force twice larger than ours.”

“Excellent! Will you address the Council in a few months and talk to them about benefits of freeing slaves? The word of the Lord High Councilor has great weight with the Council. I doubt you'll convince the head of House Dres, but you can assure my Tribunes that the risks they took will be well rewarded. And... explain to me why you were so eager to obey the new law which everyone knew I could not enforce. It isn't a law since the practice of slavery is ingrained in our society but an attempt to test the waters... I argue that if we fought the Nords who enslaved us, it is despicable for us to subjugate others, practicing what we opposed because 'we can do it' and for other feeble reasons. What do you think?”

“You've always said it with such intoxicating straightforwardness that it is hard not to envy you... I think that, to some extent, slavery is like death, but if it is demanded of me in the capacity of a leader to punish a slave, I will. And I'll own slaves, but I won't treat them with cruelty... I believe slavery is adverse to reason, but so are many laws and I've accepted that not always will we act reasonably.”

“What of Dumac and his people?”

“You're confusing me...”

“You're lenient towards your slaves and you ratified my proposal to free them although you were not obliged to me in any way. But, out of fear or some other sentiment, you refuse to admit that Dwemer like us breathe the same air and bleed and suffer like us. And they invent magnificent machines and build towers that reach to the skies. Their scientific optimism fascinates me although we cannot reconcile ourselves with it – our pessimism doesn't let us.” Voryn pursed up his lips in disappointment, but Nerevar continued his passionate speech. “Our pessimism arises from the duality of Anu and Padomay, et'Ada and Lorkhan; the winds of change disturb the perfect completeness of the universe, Lorkhan 'impregnates it with the measure of his existence and a reasonable amount of selfishness', and Mundus is born. We are taught that creation is a trick, or an experiment, and that true perfection lies somewhere beyond the prison of this world. We respond to the trials and tribulations of life with sadness and arrogance, just as Boethiah taught us... The Dwemer reject the dualism and with it, the sorrow of creation. They believe that all is knowable and, thus, it wants to be known whereas we acquiesce that our wisdom must admit its powerlessness before the secrets of gods. In excess, incurable optimism constitutes danger to them, but this is the source of our endless arguments with Dumac whose obstinacy frustrates me as much as your willful ignorance.”

“I am and will always be beholden to Azura whose existence I can neither deny nor doubt, or wish to doubt for that matter,” said Voryn humbly. Nerevar's allusion to his ignorance didn't offend him in the slightest. “Incidentally, I returned to Bal Fell and summoned her-”

“Yes, Almalexia told me... Will you, please, think about what I've told you? I'll ask nothing else of you – just think without prejudice in your heart and decide for yourself whether you see rightness in my words or not.”

“I will, I will! Forgive me, lord Nerevar, but Azura's message and now your words threw me into confusion.”

“Ah, Azura can abash the most imperturbable of mer.” Nerevar rose from the table. “I'd like very much to hear everything she told you, word-for-word, but I suggest we continue our heart-to-heart talk where no one can eavesdrop on us. Alandro!”

Voryn stared at Nerevar with breathless attention, wondering how he knew that someone listened to his conversation with duke Melen, but he worried to no purpose – Nerevar had but vague suspicions.

“I don't want to converse in my chambers,” the Hortator explained to him. “Alandro reminded me that guar races were about to commence in the Temple district. I prefer to watch fights in the Arena and I usually preside over duels to the death there – a gruesome affair – but I am fond of guars. These animals are remarkably intelligent and fast. You've never seen anything like it! They whiz by you in a blink and earth trembles under their feet.”

“I'll join you only on one condition that afterwards we'll go somewhere and drink ourselves senseless,” insisted Voryn.

“So be it,” answered Nerevar with a glint of excitement in his eyes. “Alandro!”

...For the merry event which the entire Mournhold awaited with reserved excitement, Nerevar jauntily arrayed himself in an ornate woolen blouse with white accessories, a pair of silken britches and exquisite black shoes with a silver trim. In his ears glimmered expensive but unpretentious ebony and glass earrings adorned with diamonds which accentuated the severity of his eyes.

As they walked through the City of Light and Magic, they were recognized on more than one occasion and each baker, tavern owner, trader and smith Nerevar greeted with a kind word or a good-humored jest. Voryn stood behind him like a shadow, partaking unwillingly in the sacred display of love between the people and their king. Voryn's gloomy figure gained none of their warm affection, and he was bitterly jealous of it and deeply ashamed of his jealousy all at once; he, too, wanted to greet the crowd with confidence and goodwill and smile to their sincere adoration, but he retreated into himself, assuming an air arrogant and unapproachable.

The throng of Nerevar's admirers followed them to the Arena through the streets of Mournhold lit up by the waning sunlight in which the awkward angular houses commonly seen in Resdaynia appeared cozy. Greenish and brown masonry prevailed in their architecture as did squat roofs and tiny windows. The majority of high-rise Chimer dwellings did not, in truth, rise above ground but stretched deep below the well-paved roads hence they didn't need many windows, and around them and underneath them Chimer masons built obsessively, for many a year, far-reaching convoluted tunnels until a city under a city sprang up, with its own labyrinth of narrow streets and population of wretched outcasts.

The Arena, however, unlike the royal palace, was erected in the same style as Velothi towers. The arena itself was surrounded by a tall thick wall of stone and encircled it galleries, spread with tapestries and silk, which accommodated the nobility. Above them sat the common folk on rough wooden benches and the poorest of the spectators occupied the aisles. In the four corners of the arena were placed pennons emblazoned with Moon and Star and various symbols of Indoril royalty which gaily fluttered in the wind.

It was generally adopted among the Chimer to harbor grudges to the death and determine disputes by means of an ordeal by combat. If a grievance could not be settled by law of peace, the Hortator allowed both concerned parties to duel in the Arena and every such event attracted the vast confluence of people of all ranks and ages whose desire to gaze upon a bloody spectacle won over the fear of death. Each of the six noble Houses devised different rules for combatants and the honor of the House depended on the participants adhering to those rules; a member of House Dagoth had to wait for his opponent to deliver the first blow and members of House Redoran were forbidden to strike down a disarmed opponent unless he chose to fight without weapons. Less bloodthirsty and more sensitive citizens of Mournhold amused themselves with guar races. In the first days of Last Seed, from all across Resdayn arrived spectators and animal trainers to observe or compete for supremacy and a considerable monetary prize from queen Almalexia for 'the most magnificent of all guars'. The queen often attended the races with her resplendent entourage, but occasionally Nerevar came with his shield-bearer and his appearance was met with a no less clamorous and hearty plaudit.

When Nerevar's arrival was announced, many spectators rose from their seats and the applause deafened Voryn who hastened to take his place in the central gallery to avoid attention. It slipped his memory that he desired it intensely for a little and he even laughed at his foolish thoughts. The crowds dispensed their attention on a whim and he was loved and revered by his countrymen who would lay down their lives for him. What he sought in the murky depths of his soul he hardly understood.

“Look over there,” said Nerevar, leaning across the table, and the heady smell of bug musk perfume washed over him. “Do you see that guar? No, look to your left... That's Jok. He won the previous race... A gorgeous beast, isn't he?”

Nerevar's improvised throne was upholstered in soft blue spidersilk and elevated above others. The two round stools at its footing seemed tiny in comparison, but therefrom nevertheless the entire arena came into view, its solemn splendor dressed in merriment. Voryn saw a dozen or so well-bred guars with strong front claws which were not well developed in their wild kin; they had soft bellies and it seemed to him that they were smiling. Behind them bustled riders in motley clothes and animal trainers with whips.

Here, in the Arena, his older brother issued a challenge to his father in accordance to the honorable tradition and his blood was spilled onto the merciless sand before the eyes of a lone witness.

“Yes, I see him,” Voryn said gently.

Alandro Sul brought them, upon the Hortator's request, a bottle of vintage brandy with two goblets and set them on the table. They raised their glasses at the same time; Voryn emptied his goblet in one gulp while Nerevar drank his brandy slower, savoring its taste. The Hortator radiated happiness and gaiety which suited him well, but Voryn could not conceive how he could be so oblivious to his friend's abject misery.

In the meantime, the guars with the riders firmly seated on their backs were lined up and the roll of a drum resounded, signaling the spectators and the participants of the race to rivet their attention on the arena and, encouraged by the nobles and commoners alike, the riders darted off with the speed of an arrow.

“Why all the secrecy?” Voryn asked Nerevar after the guars finished their first loop.

“You haven't heard? Almalexia made an announcement to the Council against my wishes... I can trust but you, old friend.”

The head of House Dagoth burst into uneasy laughter.

“You've said it before, in almost exact words... Yes, I remember it now. When I met with you in Narsis, you said: 'You're the only one I can trust', but then you were addressing Dumac... Are these the studied words that you repeat senselessly whereas, in truth, you do not trust me at all – not me or any one of us for that matter? I am right, aren't I?.. Believe what you wish: in the 'sorrow of creation' or in the innocence of you friend Dumac, but after we shed blood together on the Bitter Beach and in Bal Fell and... you shouldn't lie to me! Not in the same sentence in which you call me your 'friend'...” Voryn shuddered with horror when it occurred to him that he had said it all aloud, and that Nerevar heard him. “Forgive me, lord Nerevar, I must have been terribly drunk!” He exclaimed, dreading to think what would happen if he didn't come to his senses. “I sobered up and it horrifies me that I said it all. I must have forgotten myself.” But he wasn't tipsy! He said those bitter words, being of sound mind and without any compulsion, and yet his heart ached and he couldn't bring himself to look at Nerevar's face afterwards.

Guar by the name of Jok swept past them and the onlookers roared, jumping to their feet.

“Don't reproach yourself, Voryn,” Nerevar said at long last. “Much of what you've said is right, but I do want to repose my full trust in you... I truly want to. Do you believe me? What an ill-placed question!”

“You honor me with your forgiveness. Even if I were right, I should have kept silent.”

“Forget it! You criticize my policies in harsher words and I've endured your insolence until now... And I say 'insolence' in jest; you're not as impudent as Melen or Almalexia. You have yet to announce to the Council that the war with Dwemer is imminent and that we have to strike preemptively. Or barge into my room like you're possessed by angry spirits and yell into my ear about godforsaken taxes...”

“Dagoth Felmis got into a fuss about taxes, too. After I returned from Bal Fell, he took me aside and told me, 'Lord High Councilor, the taxes are too high; my household is in ruin and my wife can't give birth because of taxes.' And I said to him, 'You're a fool and low taxes won't cure that.'”

“Ha-ha-ha! Let's drink, Voryn, for glorious Resdayn and for Jok who will be today's winner!.. And you can tell me why Azura graced you with her presence.” Nerevar raised his goblet. “May Resdayn know a hundred years of prosperity!

“And may Jok live just as long!” Exclaimed Voryn.

Voryn's reminiscences about the rest of the evening were vague, but he was easy in the mind and Jok, to Nerevar's satisfaction, won the race. The Hortator kept his word and they drank one too many a bottle of brandy, laughing about trifles to their hearts' content and enjoying the company of each other. In spite of their heated disagreements, Voryn was quite taken with Nerevar, but he had neither the courage to admit to himself the whole truth nor the power to abandon old hopes.      

***

_When does Dagoth Ur realize that he is alive?_

_A hapless herder fell asleep at the foot of the Red Mountain near a pool of liquid mud which gave off steam. He didn't lay a fire out of fear that it would attract wild animals which roamed about the ash land region, but the night was cold and he hugged his guar to warm the animal. Of his own well-being the shepherd did not think._

_Dagoth Ur entered the herder's dream as he would enter a house and he left a divine seed in it without care or thought; and as the divine seed grew in the house of dreams, it filled it with darkness._

_When a divine spark fell upon the flesh, it was extinguished, but such was not the will of the spark but of the flesh which withered in agony, weak and unfit._

_The herder woke up, wailing from pain and alone, for his horrifying screams frightened his guar. His skin was covered in blotches and ulcers, or it had rotten away. And he was overcome with rapacious hunger which ate away at his soul, as he searched for the divine seed which lodged in his throat._

_So with his claws the herder tore off a piece of flesh from his womb which dripped with pus and put it in his mouth, and chewed it with his teeth. His flesh was sweet and oily on his tongue, but his throat gave birth to a divine sound._

_A weed. A speck of dust._

_To wreak vengeance upon his enemies Dagoth Ur will come. And all will greet him as flesh, or as dust._

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The timeline of this thing is very muddled :) Blame my love for a story within a story style.

**Interlude I: Moon and Star**

“ _What is divinity?” Dagoth Ur asks himself and out of vanity, he records the answer._

“ _A divine being does not fear death, but the principle difference between him and a mortal creature is far greater. Longevity is not synonymous to godhood._

_A god cannot be stationary. As a mortal struggles in a fragile boat, a god traverses the sea of time, tearing the fabric of reality around him; moonlight lies under his feet and stars decorate his eternity, celestial bodies move and shatter on his whim, rivers change their course, mathematics bows to him, helpless – a god is an endless force of creation and destruction and thus a god, by his nature, cannot be inactive._

_Vivec grasped it, too, when he wrote his stories; they were boring, insipid stories, but he understood that a god is not an indifferent observer and he unearthed his curiosity in the ennui of endless existence._

_The root of the word 'enlightenment' is 'light', but illumination is passive, the intake of light is apathetic; no matter how brightly the light shines, it does not vanquish the darkness of ignorance. My enlightenment – it's a pity that I must use the wrong word because there is no other in the weak language of mortals - is an invasion, a liberation, a dance amid the stars and a sweet pain of the mind free from old superstitions; it is a light that pierces and a dream that conquers minds._

_There is immutable truth in a dream and in a grain of divinity – a universe.”_

***

Voryn often asked Nerevar how he became known as Nerevar Moon-and-Star and for a while the Hortator avoided answering the question until one day he told him the truth and the truth was so simple that it was unbelievable, yet there could be no explanation to the mystery more fitting than the one Voryn heard.

It was the year of the First Era three hundred and eighty-two.

Nerevar who had not yet been adopted into House Indoril gathered a band of armed villagers and, with promises of loot and freedom, persuaded them to make bold forays on the settlements north of a Chimer fortress Indoranyon which was occupied by the Nords and wherein large quantities of weapons were stored. Nerevar hoped to lay siege to Indoranyon by Hearthfire, but although after a few successful inroads on Mas and Vos, the disorderly undisciplined multitude he commanded was imbued with a fanatical belief that Boethiah herself blessed their leaders with invincibility, he – and Vivec, too – knew full well that they would flee before the flutter of a banner with armed Nords in a battle array underneath it. They fought village guards and children and they were on their mettle, but neither the rusty mattocks nor the ragged armor would protect them from the enemy's faithful frightening axe.

In Rain's Hand sudden and steady downpours washed over the land, leaving destruction in their wake – fields turned into mire, roads were erased from maps, heavy wagons sank into mud. Local farmers called these storms 'Boethiah's mischief' as they were violent and treacherous in nature like the temperament of the Deceiver yet they devastated and ravaged without malice. After a particularly severe storm, a Nordic caravan was seen to drag unhurriedly across the pastoral plains of Grazelands towards the fortress Indoranyon. The merchants happened to take a swampy road south which abutted upon the inhospitable heath of Ashlands to avoid encountering the nomadic tribes, but they didn't travel far inland before their carts stuck in the slush. Only outlanders were foolish or daring enough to brave the elements in spring with such unconcern.

Nerevar set his sights on the caravan; he was eager and firm in his decision to attack it, stooping to act dishonorably because the reality appeared to him implacable and unfair. Resdayn writhed in great agony before his eyes, torn apart by conquest, humiliated by surrender, oppressed with heavy taxes and slavery, and if to lift the veil of misery from his land he would have to rob defenseless merchants, how could he waver? If by shedding the blood of the few he could avert the agony of the many, he condemned hesitation as a glaring misdeed. He chose to walk a thorny path, for it was easy to conceive evils imagined as more perilous and terrible than evils real, and on that path none could boast of an irreproachable reputation.

The evening of the skirmish was eerie, quiet; in the ravines gathered shadows impregnable to the the fading brightness of the cold sun, the stark branches of crooked trees didn't stir, the sparse grass didn't sway. Then a thunderclap resounded across the sky and the rain fell, its quiet patter but a feeble whisper in the breathless dreary vast of nature. Clouds overcast the firmament, gloom spread across the valley, but above them stretched an awry stripe of uncertain light which illumined the way. Nerevar was drenched to the skin and Vivec complained that he would catch rattles in such a revolting weather, but the rest of the ragtag company kept the iron discipline which he demanded of them. The peasants looked different than six months ago and there was about them an air of grim stoicism instead of the careless indifference as they marched into battle, having abandoned the tools for ploughing the land for the implements of bloodshed.

A shallow gully concealed them from view, and the temporary camp, to which they were fast approaching, was guarded by two sentries who could be accused of indolence. They would wander off now and then to indulge their boredom or fall into a doze, and when the night fell, they kindled a fire. Vivec hid in the bushes and therefrom he shot two arrows at each of the guards with remarkable speed and precision. No sooner had their bodies fallen to the ground than Nerevar raised his arm and, snapping his fingers, conjured a ball of fire in the air which shed pale yellow light upon the bleak landscape. The villagers rushed to the tents, tearing the colorful fabric with their axes, smashing expensive chinaware with their clumsy mauls, trampling on colorful carpets, breaking clay pots, yet amid the chaos, albeit they found furs, silverware, jewels and jars of scrib jelly, they hadn't seen even one rusty sword. Nerevar pushed his way through the crowd and on the edge of the enemy camp he looked round, but in the scanty light of his magic he couldn't discern his immediate surroundings, much less what lay beyond the boundaries of the encampment. Not a sign augured a setback in the morning, but then Nerevar felt the full bitterness of its blow.

“Set the hounds loose!” He ordered loudly, answering Vivec's inaudible question. The orphan youth shrugged his shoulders, not agreeing with him and yet not disagreeing either, and continued to stand by him, leaning on his knotty staff.

Nerevar trained the nix hounds on his own initiative, allowing none of the peasants to come near the cages where he kept the wild beasts after he caught them. He learned the craft in Ebonheart upon the insistence of the owner of the caravan whom he served faithfully for many years. Rats would eat his grain – large dirty rats which disgusted him – but therein the many talents of a guard were of no use, therefore they bought two nix hounds at a discount price from a disreputable Bosmer who disappeared without a trace on the day he had to teach them how to handle the animals. 'Handle them with care,' the trader told the caravan's owner. 'With care! Careful, that is,' and it was the last time they spoke to each other.

Nerevar grew accustomed to tending to the dogs and it was not a difficult matter for him to acquire a kennel after he left the service of his previous master.

Nerevar whistled and pointed to the nix hounds a clear trail left by two carts and at least five guars. The enormous animals, sinewy, robust, and swift, with protruding red avaricious eyes and long snouts, sensing freedom, screeched joyously and darted along an even rut which was still visible to the naked eye. Nerevar ordered a peasant to bring him a guar and he obeyed, returning with an agitated animal which allowed the future Hortator to climb on its back only after he patted it on the head reassuringly.

In spite of Vivec's protests, Nerevar hugged the guar's neck and rushed towards the copse whereat he came across another ravine, its slopes steep and wet, yawning in front of him like a bottomless pit. The ball of fire in his hand hissed pitifully, quenched by the torrent of rain and the frequent sharp gusts of wind, but he nevertheless became aware that in front of him there was no road and the stream of water gushed down in a waterfall of dirt. The guar grew restless and Nerevar, cursing the obstacle, skirted the ditch in his relentless pursuit of the hounds, directing the animal with adroitness. The storm raged, the wind refused to abate, as if trying to earn its name which likened it to the almighty Boethiah, the rain lashed Nerevar's face, soaking into the chinks in his armor, but he not once thought of abandoning the chase.

Although Nerevar had been a guard and battled in his lifetime only bands of robbers who could not boast of firm discipline, he believed that the goddess would reveal to him how to defeat the Nords in an opportune moment and he was utterly convinced of it. He ignored Azura's visions, he didn't give into temptation to act rashly, and he waited until there could be no doubts in his mind about the purport of the goddess's promises. She would show him in time how to decimate the enemy's army with a thousand spears as bright as a sun and magics as terrible as a storm; he had to believe in his words sincerely or he wouldn’t understand why Azura chose him instead of a mer well-versed in the art of war. Vivec told him that hardly any celebrated enterprise in fighting had been achieved without endless exertion, pains, and privations, but he wouldn't listen to his companion; in his vivid imagination, he painted an idyllic picture and with youthful ardor charged towards his imagined destiny.

The future Hortator overtook the hounds by the water. They huddled together on the earthy shore, yelping and looking altogether quite dispirited. Nerevar was excited after the chase and he obstinately could not admit himself beaten and the prey lost. Tightening the bridle, he jumped off the mount and freed it from the harness with which he tied the dogs together. “Find the trail!” He ordered them. “Find it!” But the hounds growled at something invisible and fawned upon him, refusing to leave his side.

Nerevar saw what frightened the dogs when abruptly, cutting through the thick mass of dark clouds, the silver Secunda appeared on the firmament and although her victory was momentary, in the cascade of light the contours of a grandiose fortress could be seen. Peals of thunder made the welkin ring and the veil of rain concealed Indoranyon from view, but not before Nerevar counted at least a dozen Nords in the courtyard. And underneath his feet a long winding wheel track stretched to the foot of the hill upon which the fortress was built. The future Hortator understood in the few moments the light shone upon the fortress that he would have to storm Indoranyon there and then, while he still had the advantage of surprise, or a sad fate would befall his daring beginnings. He would have to be utterly mad to attack it with a few poorly armed mer at his command, but the Nords couldn't have foreseen this hare-brained madness and to so feeble a chance Nerevar was willing to entrust his life and the lives of his followers.

“You're utterly mad,” Vivec didn't take long to voice out his opinion. “You're right, they don't think we will attack now, but I cannot ascribe such an assumption to arrogance, only to reason. They will repel our attacks because... if their numbers don't exceed ours, they are nevertheless protected by the walls.” Vivec, in Nerevar's absence, gathered the most healthy peasants who showed exceptional fortitude of spirit to follow his imprudent commander and they reached Indoranyon soon after him, choosing their path with consideration. They never found the ravine and the copse, hurrying along a pebbled path to the sea shore where they spotted Nerevar's nix hounds. “Look at them,” he pointed to a few terrified villagers. “They're as good as dead if you follow through with your plan. Dagon's spawn, they will call you; if they survive by some miracle, they will shun you. And Azura won't help you... How many times do I have to tell you that the goddess threw us upon our own devices?”

Nerevar glanced in the direction of the fortress and an unutterable loathing, an inexplicable dread seized him which, even if he wished, he could not explain to the youth. “They will die either way!” He answered. “The Nords will come with steel and fire and they will raze the villages to the ground and the fault will be with us that we didn't inspire them to die fighting. There is an honorable death in battle and a dog's death cowering under the enemy's axe.”

“It isn't an impossible outcome, but, please, reconsider, my only friend.”

“The more we think about our actions, the more certain we are to lose!” Nerevar exclaimed, waving his arm, and saddled his guar. “Today we storm Indoranyon!” He screamed hoarsely and his eyes glistened with fury. “We have before us one path – to the gates of the fortress and beyond. If we fail today, we will not rise again, so I beseech you – do not fail! Do no falter! Azura is with us!”

The villagers heard their chieftain and the passion with which he spoke passed on to them, rekindled in their chests a flame of righteous wrath, reminding them of their children who were taken from them, of their wives who died in childbirth, of their hunger and their burnt homes. While some of them seemed to be in a daze, staring thoughtlessly at Nerevar, others picked up their hammers and pitchforks and, deriving their strength from common grief, closed their ranks. Nerevar drew his sword and swung it in the direction of the fort. “Victory or death,” a loud murmur spread through the crowd. The future Hortator took his place at the head of the wretched column and the murk of rain cruelly concealed him from Vivec's sharp eyes.

If Nerevar looked back, he would see that Vivec didn't stir; he bowed his head on his chest and clutched the staff in his hands which glowed dimly as powerful magic began to emanate from him, enveloping the villagers in a dreamy fog of illusion. Nerevar didn't look back, but he felt the chilly touch of its taut threads and the viscid sleep-inducing weight in his body. The enemy who bore the brunt of the attack would see wreathes of torn mist assume incredible shapes – a mer with a sword, or a guar rider in full armor – and each of these ghostlike figures would flutter, coming together and apart so as to appear more unbelievable and the Nords would peer into the distance with amazement. They wouldn't sense danger until Nerevar killed the guards by the gate and by then it would be difficult for the enemy to stop his charge.

Vivec was right in his predictions; torches flared up on the walls of the fortress, now singly, now in great numbers, merging and dissipating, but the Nords didn't guess the nature of the strange haze, allowing Nerevar to reach the gate safely. The future Hortator raised his hand, pouring magic into his palm, and with great force struck at the wooden leaves, shattering the rusty hinges. The sentries were struck down by the peasants, each with a few heavy blows to the head from which even helmets couldn't protect their owners. Former herders, smiths, merchants and farmers handled their weapons with as much skill as Nerevar could impart to them in such a short time and with some dexterity, but what they lacked in mastery, they made up for with vehement zeal. Pitchforks penetrated the visors, mauls smashed through armor, and, as though drunk on the first blood they spilled, the peasants stepped over the dead bodies and, breaking formation, moved onward without accord. Nerevar saw a weak-looking peasant stoop over a body on the ground, and then he disappeared in the river of dark bodies, trampled down to the death. 

From the bottom of the gates stretched a wide flight of stairs about thirty-five strides in length and although elsewhere the walls were unassailable, such was the treacherous, arduous nature of the ascent that Vivec rightfully accused Nerevar of indiscretion. If the Nords positioned archers on the nearby walls and atop the stairway, it wouldn't be possible for Nerevar's raggedy troops to mount it without heavy casualties and it happened so that they did exactly that. Their leader that night was not by any means a fool. Arrows rained down upon the unfortunate assailants, piercing through the clumsy wooden shields, and from them the peasants and Nerevar knew no defense. If Nerevar had been a better commander, he would order the shield-bearers to enclose the rest of the troops and advance in a formation which derived its name from a mudcrab, but he possessed neither the military prowess nor the quickness of wit for which he would attain a wide renown many years later. He, as it often happens with young commanders, lost his head at the sight of people he had come to know well dying all around him. Then an arrow wounded the guar under him and no sooner had he dismounted than the animal, whining lamentably, teetered and fell off the accursed stairs.

Vivec walked reservedly behind the last row of the peasants and seeing that they were in grave danger, he resorted to magic earlier than he wished. A shimmering barrier rose in front of Nerevar who still led the attack, offering him and his band of villagers some protection – a body would fall now and then, but the stinging arrows didn't reap so bountiful a harvest of death and the stones weren't slippery with blood wherever he stepped.

It was then that the Nords ceased shooting arrows at them, affording them a short respite from the hail of death, and made way for a man of ordinary height of whom Nerevar saw little at first: a helmet crowned with elegant horns and a large axe lifted above his head. The future Hortator reached the end of the stairway and, outstretching his hand, stabbed a Nord in the stomach with a short sword of Daedric origin when, belatedly, he noticed that the man in light armor decorated with fur stood mockingly on the edge of the abyss and that the other Nords had made themselves scarce. He had heard of the wielders of thu'um, but he deemed their powers inferior to the elven craft and he could not imagine that the might of dragons would humble the raw magic of sun and stars until the moment the unassuming man opened his mouth – and Nerevar saw him vividly, the strong jaws and the red tongue, and the small teeth – shouting incoherent words which bridled the rage of the storm. Nerevar was thrown against the wall with immense force, but some of the peasants who didn't have his luck were blown away into the precipice and their screams drowned in the bellows of the hurricane. The rest of his pitiful force made desperate attempts to fight back, but it was clear to him that if he couldn't defeat the Nord commander, it would be a futile resistance and they, too, would die a coward's death, in spite of the remarkable grit they demonstrated earlier.

The Nord shouted again and the foundations of Indoranyon trembled, but as impressive as it was, fewer villagers fell victim to it. Nerevar pushed off the floor, but his legs gave way and he fell prone on the cold stones, coughing and writhing in excruciating pain. He rose on a repeated attempt and with an unsteady gait, wiping a trickle of blood from his lips, approached the enemy commander. The Daedric sword in his hand shone softly, its dark ebony blade singing in the foretaste of the enemy's flesh.

The Nord turned to him – a ghastly figure in light armor spattered with blood from a farmer he cut down – and raised the ponderous axe. The first blow split Nerevar's flimsy shield, the second he dodged if barely, rushing into a gap which appeared when the Nord swung at him wildly only to be struck half-way by an ironclad fist. Nerevar tottered, but by some miracle straightened himself up and adopted a defensive posture. His desperate lunge was successful; the Daedric sword cut the enemy Nord on the forehead and it decided the outcome of the fight. Blood profusely poured from the wound over his right eye, blinding him temporarily, and Nerevar availed himself of his opponent's weakness and his speed, frustrating him with quick thrusts and feints. Time after time, he would strike from the high stance and move away to the right and dance around.

The Nord was hesitant to use his thu'um until they were far away from the battle so as not to injure his comrades-in-arms, and once Nerevar took note of his movements, he began to lead his enemy in the direction of the melee, preparing destructive magic in his left palm. When the Nord commander was in a particularly advantageous for him position, Nerevar allowed himself to be flattened and hurled a bundle of raw magical energy into his face. The smell of charred flesh filled the air. The Nord put up his right hand as if to protect himself and began to scream, but Nerevar plunged a sharp piece of the broken shield into his throat before his words could topple trees and destroy walls.

His hands and clothes were stained with crimson spots and Nerevar became strikingly aware of it after the immediate danger to his life passed; not that he didn't notice such deplorable state of his attire heretofore, but the thought didn't linger in his mind and now he wondered whose blood it was, overcome with confusion and rage. He glanced round and saw men and mer running, but he, a simple merchant, couldn't understand who won or who lost. It seemed to him that the peasants had fled, leaving him and Vivec to perish after so much blood was shed, and his victory over the Nord commander was hollow. Fear gained mastery over him as his mind struggled to accept the hideousness of his situation, true and fancied. He veered to the conclusion that he had done something unforgivable, yet he clung to hope that he was justified in his decision; he hoped and he was disgusted by it, but for once he couldn’t grasp why it was so.

When he recovered his temper, he discovered only the bodies of the dead and the wounded, and among the devastation Vivec stood with a sorrowful expression on his face, leaning on his staff.

“Is it the victory you wanted, Nerevar?” He asked.

“I don't understand... I don't understand anything. Are you a traitor, too? Were you the one who ran away? Traitor... ” Nerevar replied with amazement although he realized that his tone and expression were inappropriate to the occasion. He began to gather the abandoned weapons into a pile. “The moon... it was a sign, it must have been. Is-”

“Is everyone dead? Some Nords escaped with their lives after you defeated their leader, but of our villagers who didn't flee none survived. You rule over empty stones! Go claim your prize.”

“Can't you help them?”

“My magicka is depleted, so is yours, I presume. You always squander it.”

“The moon...” It was absurd, unreal. It seemed to Nerevar that he was watching himself from above and that Nerevar on the ground was someone else unknown to him. He was cruel and calm and he didn't believe in Azura's promises. “Are you going to leave me, too, Vivec?”

“Where would I go?” He shrugged his bony shoulders and picked up a bow discarded by a dead Nord who clutched a dagger to his chest. His malice showed even after his death in a way he bared his teeth at the entire world, defiant till the end. “You weren't all too wrong, I suppose. We'll go to Mounhold to beg the queen for mercy and perhaps she'll forgive us – I cannot imagine she is too happy about the Nords lording in her lands – and adopt us into House Indoril. It's no small feat to capture a fortress... An impressive feat, I should say.”

“You say so, Vivec, because you want to console me.”

Instead of an answer, Vivec slipped his cold, wet palm into Nerevar's hand and pointed to the east where in the early sun a long road meandered between hills and ravines.

Since that day, Moon-and-Star represented to Nerevar sacrifice, hope and victory; the bitterness of false expectations and the sweetness of triumph; the impossible light in the murky sky and the darkness that swallowed it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _hardly any celebrated enterprise in fighting had been achieved without endless exertion, pains, and privations_ \- reference to C. Clauzewitz's "On War"
> 
>  _Mudcrab formation_ \- a part of my overly-detailed headcanons about Chimer warfare. Of course it's called tortoise formation, but since there were no turtles in TES universe - at least to my knowledge - I used mudcrabs as the closest equivalent


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 5: The Red Tower  
  
**

_With time Dagoth Ur understands that he was egregiously wrong._

_A mortal's curiosity is a midwife to enigma, but a god's inquisitiveness is a flash of lightning._

_He cannot be alive, for he never died; he cannot be dreaming, for he never slept. When he fell, he ascended beyond time, beyond death and despair, and he walked the path which few mortals had trod. Perhaps in the realm of time he ceased to be, but in the realm of gods – of the mute not-being – he continued to exist, nailed to the Tower with forty-four nails._

_He sees the Wheel of Aurbis in its furious and brilliant revolution – the misty plains of Aetherius, the fretful sea of Oblivion, the soul-flesh of Lorkhan, and the eye of Nirn. The wheel conceals an eternity within its elegant lines, the hub – selfishness and frailty._

_He sees the land of Resdayn and the unbreakable home wherein he lived; its dark walls sank into the ground and silence inhabited its halls, effacing memories of laughter and voices which once enlivened its stones. He wants to rebuild it and in time, he will._

_He sees a room; light pours through its window. On the crumpled sheets, Nerevar lies in an awkward sprawl and the white cloth foams up at his thigh, baring a mole on his buttock which doesn't resemble Moon and Star. Past affections shouldn't matter to him, but his heart is filled with sadness._

_'Nerevar, my sweet fool, you could see it, too, if you weren't so stubborn.' He smiles in his thoughts. 'It is beautiful.'_

***

Voryn waited for an apt occasion to slink into Sotha Sil's dwelling so as to talk to the creature he named Arun since he set foot in the royal palace, but for a few weeks he had to content himself with the company of the king and the Tribunes and idle away his time on tedious everyday trifles which preoccupied his attention for many hours. Nerevar didn't hasten to comply with Azura's request and together with Almalexia and Vivec, he made plans to rebuild Bal Fell, visiting priests, farmers and architects, while Voryn enjoyed wide freedom. The head of House Dagoth thought of returning to Kogoruhn to put his affairs in order, but such was his insatiable curiosity that he couldn't leave Mounrhold until he saw the hideous creature again.

Arun intrigued Voryn greatly, but as he wasn't privy to the conversation between Sotha Sil and the Hortator, his hunger for truth wasn't sated with unsatisfactory guesses which he couldn't develop into ample theories. He remembered his burning wish to render justice on her master, but he accepted, grudgingly, that it wasn't in his power to punish him; it wasn't the sweet anticipation of revenge that guided him, but sincere curiosity which wasn't less haunting than the pursuit of vengeance.

Voryn hid by Boethiah's statue every day, patiently bidding his time until the mage recluse left his dwelling and eventually the god of luck smiled at him, rewarding his sufferance. Sotha Sil was called away to attend a sitting with the Telvanni mages and the head of House Dagoth seized the opportunity to question the Daedra one-on-one. Looking over his shoulder now and then to quell uneasiness at the thought of Sotha Sil catching him in so indecent an act and feeling, in spite of sober misgivings, youthful excitement which he hadn't felt since he stole father's enchanted robes on the older brother's dare, Voryn sneaked into the familiar cave and, with agonizing slowness, approached the cage on the far side of the cavern. The sphere didn't awake at the sound of his light tread, remaining an inanimate pile of metal it would be if the brilliant Dwemer engineers didn't breathe life into it. The Animunculi contained within their metallic bodies a myriad of tantalizing enigmas, but Voryn didn't come to ponder over the secrets of their creation though he dreamed of dissecting one of them since the end of his apprenticeship with a Telvanni sorcerer.

Arun slept and in her awkward pose Voryn saw harmony, in her body a monstrous completeness and a voracity akin to her master's unquenchable rage. But even depraved miserable creatures were blessed with wholesome sleep or their shattered souls would be consumed by an inexplicable longing and profound hatred of the mortal races. Padomay's blood birthed them, fires of spite fed them, anger nursed their wounds, yet in their fitful sleep, they looked peaceful and untroubled by chaotic thoughts. His teacher was fond of conjuration, practicing the summoning of lesser Daedra almost every day and Voryn – then a callow boy of barely fifteen years of age – pestered them with silly questions. He would ask a Winged Twilight why its hair was soft as his mother's and why an ogrim was as corpulent as the House healer, but the Daedra were bound by a spell to fight for their temporary master, not answer his countless questions.

The Chimer, receiving revelations from Azura, learned to shun Molag Bal, his Daedra servants and his cultists. The Prince of Domination, the second corner of the House of Troubles, titled so in a spiritual doctrine written by Prophet Veloth, derived enjoyment from testing them and seducing them out of the right way, achieving grisly renown for his brutish honesty, outspoken cruelty and lewd inclinations to disguise himself as a mortal so as to corrupt a virtuous woman, and yet he would bestow generous gifts of knowledge and power upon his followers or assist them in their endeavors, with the same furious satisfaction he would feel if they were to fail.

Molag Bal's reputation often set the tongues wagging. If a Chimer child was born blind or deaf, or otherwise odd in some way, with two heads or six fingers on each hand or with a tail, the village would be astir; the villagers would drag the mother out of her home, beat her, curse her for bearing a spawn of the Prince of Rage and drown her in a river with her offspring. The irony of it was that Molag Bal's children could not be outwardly distinguished from their peers, but to an ignorant peasant or priest such signs were an irrefutable proof of the gods' disfavor.

Whilst Voryn contemplated the nature of Arun's master, the creature's wing twitched and she opened her eyes, fixing her unblinking stare on him. She had the eyes of a golden saint, dark, wistful and dour, with thin black slits for pupils.

“Mortals came to torture me,” she whispered slowly but without a lisp. “No, I'm wrong... you are different, you gave me my name! I extend to you my greetings,” she finished her welcoming speech by scribbling Voryn's title on the wall of stone with a claw – a sequence of uneven Daedric letters which composed an unfamiliar word:

Voryn read the word thrice, but it broke up into letters and syllables, awaking no associations in his memory.

“I didn't take in your message, you must have mistaken me for-”

“Who else would you be?” Arun spread her taut wings menacingly and pressed her face to the cold steel bars of her prison. “One mortal, the one whose hair is white as the air above the Hollow City, screamed at me, threatening me with unbearable torture, and his older companion used his deadly magics to submit me, but it was all in vain. This shell of a body knows no use in its incomplete state, except for one: to serve my master. My master forbade me from revealing His precious secrets and I have no memory of my own.”

“Then tell me why you named yourself 'Unborn Ar'. Why weren't you born?” Asked Voryn, losing forbearance. The creature spoke in riddles although she hadn't perchance intended to confuse him, expressing her thoughts in a language so foreign to her to the best of her ability, but he expected Sotha Sil to walk into the cave any moment, fancying he heard footsteps, clear and hurried, in the passage behind him. He wiped sweat off his forehead, but he didn't feel relieved, only more jittery and perturbed.

“Why wasn't I hatched? Such careless curiosity you express, mortal... But I will answer you," said Arun. “There was I which wasn't I before me. I was not like Grunda, the guardian of the Chasm, or Ozzozachar, the mindless brute, but my master named me His child... Forget filthy mortal children! From the roe of the Giant Fish I was born, spawned across the vast of Nirn. From the Seed of Life I sprung up... I served my master faithfully until the day Boethiah's Champion slew me. Goldbrand extruded my soul from the body. Its evil, stinging flames burnt my skin! It torments me to remember... Why did my master let me keep this recollection?”

“Molag Bal has children – an outlandish notion! I presume it is pointless to ask why he created you and... the 'other you'.”

“Foolis-s-sh mortal!” The creature hissed angrily. “You know not a thing. Perhaps I should tear your soul from your body and give it to my master as a present in exchange for a vestige – a fitting trinket for you! But I will not kill you, name-giver. You will serve my master, you will set me free!”

“I serve no lord, f'lah,” Voryn replied proudly, “but my king whose name is not Prince of Enslavement and whom I chose to exalt although I could have cast him down just the same. Why should I bow down to Molag Bal? If you answer my questions, I'll open the doors of your cage, but not a moment earlier.”

“How daring a declaration,” rang quietly behind him. Voryn recognized the voice and, for fear of the worst, avoided looking the Tribune in the eye. “You must be surprised to see me, but your weak illusion spells cannot hide your presence from me. I also heard from Nerevar that you may know how this creature came to be, and I allowed you to penetrate my defenses because I have an interest in what you know and, depending on your answer, I will decide whether to bring my complaint to the king or let it go at that. After all, you are in my dwelling without my explicit permission.”

Voryn came to his senses after the Tribune's sudden appearance of which not a sound had warned him and brooded over Sotha Sil's words a bit. He knew for a certainty that the mage recluse wasn't the one to fling threats about, but even the calm and stately greatness could lose presence of mind and diplomacy resort to extortion.

“Then tell Nerevar. What do I care?” He said, smiling defiantly. His heart was beating vehemently in his chest, but if he displayed the outward confidence, he fostered an illusory hope that he could escape the cave with his reputation intact. “I enjoy a particularly fruitful friendship with the king after I provided him assistance in Bal Fell.”

“That may be true... But you hadn't considered one curious detail. You were conspiring to set the creature free when I walked in... War takes its toll on its every participant, even a mer on the side of the road who stands, watching the splendid column of the infantry pass him by. Some become sick in the soul, some lose their faith, others.... trust. War didn't deaden Nerevar's spirit, he is as sprightly as ever, but the many betrayals exacerbated his deep mistrust of people. We suffered countless setbacks because the heads of the Houses didn't keep their promises to fight for us... Bitter Beach is an unremarkable place on the Bitter Coast north of Hlormaren where so many mer had died that the swamps ran red with blood. Galmis Hlaalu promised Nerevar and Dumac that he would attack the Nords and their allies from the rear, but he retreated to Balmora and hid behind its tall gate. What will Nerevar think if he learns that you schemed with an enemy? You may as well forget about your ambitions.”

“I've got no ambitions to speak of, Sil,” objected Voryn.

“Gold? Lands? Power? What is it you want, Lord High Councilor?”

“Ah, I understand what you've implied all along, but I assure you: you're mistaken about my true intentions. Why can't I act out of goodness of my heart?”

“Nerevar is king and no one helps a king for conscience’s sake, expecting no substantial reward for their services... Wisdom for a mer's self is a depraved thing. It is the wisdom of rats that will leave a House before its fall. But a Chimer, in his core, is selfish and therefore he will expect a recompense from a mer in a position of power.”

“To set a Daedra free is to banish its soul back to Oblivion where it will await rebirth,” said Voryn. “I intended to unsheathe my dagger and plunge it into her heart, releasing the souls of men and mer which were taken to create her... There is a case of bad treasurers, generals, and housemen who prosper at the expense of the greater good of their lord, but it is not I. It is not my conscience that I speak of, but of my supreme duty.”

The creature in the cage laughed derisively and shrieked shrilly, 'Soul shrivens!'.

“I now see why Nerevar enjoys your company,” said Sotha Sil severely, paying her no heed. “You are a clever mer, but I wish to test your cleverness myself. I may have a request for you, if you are willing to do me a favor. I solve mysteries myself, but seeing that Nerevar is more willing to lend you his ear than me or Almalexia, will you persuade him that the war with Dumac is necessary? You were eager to concede to the military retaliation in the Black Marsh. It seems to me that you'll understand our reasoning for such urgency.”

“You're truly full of surprises, Sil. At first, you accuse me of disloyalty, then you offer me to be a part of your schemes... You've confused me greatly.”

“Then listen to my reasons,” Sotha Sil grimaced. “I am not Almalexia, I will not participate in her intrigues. I won't abandon hope to persuade my king who listened to my wisdom many times hitherto until it is no longer reasonable to entertain hope... I don't desire a war and I will weep for every mer who will lose his life in it; I will weep for every drop of blood which will be shed. But what if I told you that the Dwemer clans don't enjoy the unity we are accustomed to? Dumac may cherish Nerevar's friendship, but will his clansmen? The Rourken clan refused to make peace with us, so will others with time disobey their king and act as they please... I'm scrupulous, I cannot lie to Nerevar about the impending dangers. And he... If he wasn't Dumac's friend, he would have agreed to my proposal. Why him of all people? He doesn't fear bloodshed, but he naively values his intimate friendship with the Dwemer king. Such blindness!”

“I may not be fond of his leniency, but... a war? Are you certain it is wise to speak of it? Argonian rebels provoked us, so it seemed to me that if we retaliated swiftly, we displayed strength. But it's in the past now. The Dwemer kept the peace and hadn't made an attempt to extend the frontiers of their kingdom. I don't know why you'd think that... I won't make promises I can't fulfill and if you decide I deserve punishment for breaking into your home – punish me! But please, don't ask me to change my mind.”

“What wise words,” whispered Sotha Sil. “Wise words, indeed... I enjoyed our discourse and I'll pretend I haven't seen you in my abode. I trust you do the same as a matter of courtesy.”

Voryn saw an overwhelming sadness in the Tribune's features which unsettled him and yet he was relieved that the conversation ended on an uncertain note. He didn't want to deliberately offend Sotha Sil with rejection, yet he couldn't honor the Tribune's request. Bowing slightly, he withdrew from the cave, feeling more perturbed than before. An obligatory breakfast with Nerevar awaited him and he began to dread it, thinking of how to behave himself so as not to arouse the Hortator's suspicion. It seemed inevitable to him that he would be caught in a lie and although he hadn't betrayed Nerevar, Sotha Sil's words convinced him that his fragile friendship with the king had been all but irrevocably ruined.

***

Nerevar woke up with a dull headache and at once he was assailed by the wonted unpleasant doubts which worsened his irritable mood.

It seemed to him that there was a hidden meaning in every gesture and glance riveted to him by the menials, and it tormented him that his shrewdness could not dispel the thick murky veil of helpless suspicion. At times, he had to look at a face once to grasp the true nature of thoughts hidden beneath the mask by the many clues carelessly scattered about one's countenance – downcast eyes, a crease between eyebrows, a twitching of a lip – and at times, he stared dully at the mer he knew for some years, wondering absurdly if beneath the fluttering of eyelashes or in a sincere smile, they concealed a nefarious secret. And he imagined so nefarious a secret that an hour after the conversation, he would pace up and down the room, engrossed in futile guesswork which could no more bear fruit than yield before rationality. With some difficulty he would banish from the mind those persistent thoughts till the day they recurred to him and he fancied dreamy secrets in the hushed whispers and traitors at the door.

When Vivec came for breakfast, Nerevar pored over books like one possessed; before him lay untouched manuscripts on conventional warfare, historical tomes, short stories of the Ashlanders, and poetry scrolls while he flipped through the pages of a book on the deep-rooted traditions of the Dwemer, now and again staring vacantly at the ceiling and harkening to the footfall outside his chambers. Vivec on a chilly rainy morning wore but a light tunic and although he wasn't shivering with cold, the Hortator offered him a cup of hot fragrant tea.

“We'll wait for Voryn,” he told his Tribune, “but you can drink your tea now. I'm sure he won't be offended... And I'll refill your glass as many times as you want."

“Thank you, Nerevar,” replied Vivec. “I don't mind if I do.”

The Hortator had scarcely bent over the book when Vivec reached across the table and covered the page with his palm.

“Nerevar, I came to reconcile you with Almalexia,” he proclaimed in good set terms. It seemed to the Hortator that his Tribune cherished the thought for a while before voicing aloud his concerns. “It troubles me that since the last time the Council convened, you keep aloof. It's a small-minded conduct on your part. Almalexia told me that she tried to reason with you, but you rejected the compromise flatly. Is that true?”

“What do you want me to say? Suppose you're right and I harbor a petty grudge and Almalexia tried to dissuade me from, say, 'holding a trifling grudge'. But I refuse, stubborn as I am. What can you tell me that I haven't already heard?”

“Nerevar, I'm worried that-”

“You are concerned that our squabbles will reflect upon my honor or my endeavors to keep the peace in Resdayn. What irony! I brought about peace in a country, but at home,” the Hortator smirked, “fortune doesn't smile on me... You needn't worry, Vivec, we'll set aside our bitter disagreements to decide whether to levy a new tax or revise a law or two. Discordance in the Council hardly indicates that it is incapable of firmly determining disputes. But our private life... no, you needn't worry yourself.”

“I am worried, for Azura's sake... You speak in platitudes, but innocuous quarrels often grow into furious, violent feuds. And strife in the Council is healthy until... Why must I repeat myself? You are waiting for me to talk myself into a mistake, aren't you? Well, I won't allow you... Sil and I came to an agreement that you have to ask Almalexia's forgiveness. And she will forgive you, you need but ask!”

The unbidden suggestion offended and perplexed Nerevar and they wouldn't avoid another argument if Voryn didn't walk into the room with a brisk gait, blushing hectically, and seated himself at the table without a greeting. He evidently strove to preserve his composure, but his expression betrayed the tumult of his mind. The maid brought a tray of sweetrolls and Nerevar poured his guest a cup of tea, but Voryn didn't once look at him, stooping over the cup and clutching it anxiously.

Nerevar forgot about his quarrel with Vivec and devoted his attention wholly to the head of House Dagoth.

Voryn had slim well-groomed hands which weren't accustomed to hard labor and it was those hands with thin long fingers that attracted Nerevar's attention when they met in Kogoruhn for the first time. A callosity on the middle finger testified to his predilection to writing, small burns on the thumbs and on the back of the palm to his arduous studies of alchemy, but otherwise his hands befitted his fine upbringing and abundant life. Voryn's features were delicate, too – a fine nose, narrow eyes and a gentle mouth with a sensual lower lip – although they often lacked expressiveness and vivacity, appearing oddly apathetic instead of earnest.

Voryn's gaunt sooty face, half-hidden under the veil of long black hair, had an imprint of suffering on it which betrayed a supple mind and a daring noble spirit who exiled himself to the overbearing solitude, refusing to be judged or misunderstood. He would be ashamed if he were called noble, but not out of false modesty – a harlot's moderation! - in which he cocooned himself, fearing coarse impressions. Such nobility showed itself sparsely in desultory sincere acts of courage and self-sacrifice and it needed no praise or recognition. Such nobility wished to preserve itself not to be called, erroneously, naivete.

Sipping sweet tea, the Hortator inappropriately smiled at his thoughts.

“My lord, I won't be able to enjoy your company much longer,” said Voryn at long last. “I'll be leaving for Kogoruhn in the evening.”

“You're late for breakfast,” remarked Nerevar, glancing at Vivec who silently agreed with him – or so it seemed to him – that Voryn wished to unburden himself of a secret, but such unwanted thoughts invited exhausting suspicion. Stranger still was his sudden fear of solitude in which his ungovernable suspicions festered, like sickness.

“I offer you my sincere apologies. Sotha Sil delayed me.”

“I accept them... But I'd rather you stayed awhile. Ah, let me be frank... While Vivec travels to Holamayan to obtain support from Azura's priestesses, I will undertake a journey to the Red Mountain in quest of her sacred texts. I... insist that you join me; 'insist' isn't the right word, perhaps, but I hope to persuade you to come with me. The capricious goddess answered you and perhaps I think too much of it, but it can't count for nothing.”

“It was stupid luck with a bit of desperation. I performed the ritual before, but the goddess never deigned to answer. Maybe, I was desperate and she took pity on me. I can't help but wonder... But I have a family, my lord. I meant to say that although I am not married, I have to look after my brothers and sisters. And House Dagoth won't rule itself. Without me, I'm afraid, there will be disorder... nothing so dangerous as a rebellion, but my authority may be called in question.

“Azura doesn't pity mortals,” objected Vivec. “She is the whimsical wrath of the storm and pale moonlight on the unruffled surface of a lake. She answers whenever she desires: scream for hours at the sunset and it will remain silent, whisper but a word and she will come. I mean it poetically; she won't answer you if you whisper her name in vain.”

“Vivec disagrees with me, but I am certain you don't even need to pray to elicit a response from Azura. The Daedric Princes don't require lauds and abundant prayers and rituals – all such nonsense – but we must pronounce those words and slay foes in their name and burn incense to invoke spirits so as to dwell on their wisdom and labor for the crumbs of their knowledge or we, in our selfishness, will put little value upon their gifts.”

“Voryn, don't allow Nerevar to provoke you into discussing his favorite subject... Ah, confound it, I can't be silent.... I think a prayer is our sincere expression of adoration and want and therefore the goddess to whom we lift our prayers is convinced of the integrity of our motivations. How else would the goddess know whom to help and whom to forsake?”

“He's so easily provoked, that's the truth.” An infectious grin lit up Nerevar's face, but soon he grew quiet, thoughtful. “It makes no matter... As I remember, I tried to persuade Voryn to accompany me to the Red Mountain, but he mentioned unrest in Kogoruhn. Why haven't I been told about it?”

“I dare say I have the best spies in the realm,” said Vivec boastfully, “and if I haven't heard of unrest in Kogoruhn, let me assure you that it's fiction.”

Voryn poignantly blushed and stared at them with passionate but helpless indignation.

“In compliance with your wish, I will accompany you on the journey to the Red Mountain. Are you pleased?”

“Quite so!”

“Tomorrow morning we will depart from the Temple,” added the Tribune. “I'll travel to Ebonheart and Nerevar will use a teleportation spell to reach Ald'ruhn. From there it's only a day's passage to the tomb Azura described. There is fortunately only one tomb on the map that fits the description otherwise I wouldn't have found it...”

“Or I can enchant a scroll that will take us to Kogoruhn and from tehre we will reach the burial ground in half a day. I'll visit my family and I'm certain we can accommodate you well, lord Nerevar. Our goals needn't conflict with one another, but rather... we have to strive for a common benefit.”

“If only you were always so agreeable, Voryn.... But I can take you up on your offer. I don't doubt that you'll provide shelter for me. To tell the truth, I can sleep on the floor.”

“No, I can't allow that!” Protested the head of House Dagoth, his face ghastly pale. “I cannot bring dishonor to my House! There are spare rooms in the Hall of Maki for distinguished guests. I'll tell the servants to prepare them for you, but I don't know your preferences. Would you like to sleep in a room with windows? I can't say the view is pleasant...”

“I spoke too hastily...” Nerevar said in a apologetic tone. “I spent fifty years on the battlefield, not knowing where to lay my head at night. And before the war... the owner of the caravan didn't spoil us with comforts. There comes a time when habit becomes a second nature.”

Voryn smiled softly as if the last words were particularly to his liking and concluded the conversation with a bow, leaving the bedchambers in high spirits. He explained he had to withdraw abruptly to make preparations for the evening. Vivec lingered for a bit, but they didn't touch upon ticklish topics, discussing the architecture of the Daedric shrines which was a subject of great passion and interest to the Tribune. Then Vivec, too, left him and the old maid cleaned the table, dawdling with the cups and muttering a children's song to herself.

Nerevar knelt by the altar to forget himself in a prayer, but he could not dismiss the memory of Bal Fell from his mind. He learned to live with the horrors of battle, burying them in the sands of time and stowing them away in the deepest recesses of his soul, and it came easy to him. Perhaps he was unimaginative and cruel in that he could forget the suffering, but fortunate not to enjoy it. In the base and fascinating world of Chimer politics, he understood that to brazenly rule the tumultuous flow of passions, he had to forget the impossible dreams of youth and follow in the dead of night the only beacon he could trust – his unconditional love for Resdayn. The inhospitable wilderness dotted with the young growth of thorny trama root; the orange disk of the sweltering sun; a gentle stripe of a corkbulb field; the jagged teeth of an abandoned Dwemer ruin protruding from the mossy earth; a seaside village alive with children and the harsh allure of the curved hull of the proud, mighty ship – the beauty of the land of his ancestors was immutable.

Nerevar didn't know to whom he offered his prayer; his ancestors would not appear before him after they passed quietly into the unknown where the most potent spells could not reach them and the ghosts of the previous kings and queens of Mournhold kept condescending silence. Azura had spoken and it would be naive to expect a sign from her except for the ever-present feverish visions burnt into his soul.

The Hortator rose from his knees with reawakened determination. If he were to clash with Galmis Hlaalu, he would need the support of at least three Councilors and a few minor Houses. Archmagister Cardea promised him that for as long as he would allow her to study the shrine at Bal Fell, House Telvanni would not interfere. The head of House Dres was an old woman who hadn't had her wits about her for many years, retaining her power formally while her relatives decided the affairs of the House as they saw fit. Nerevar could not repose his faith in House Dres or Vilvan Melen, but he had some influence over Redoran Councilors and Indoril nobility which would not indulge Almalexia's whims and fooleries. He rested his hopes in the Lord High Councilor, whom he regarded as an ally and a friend, but his loyalty was untried, callow and the Hortator, in spite of himself, doubted that he would confide his schemes to him. It was loathsome to him that he could not be honest with anyone and his straightforwardness was often mistaken for honesty, but it was a naive impression that a lie could not be simple or barefaced or charming in its impudence. If he were to retaliate against his enemies with cruelty, he would at least want to be upright with someone – with a lover, a child or a friend.

Nerevar glanced at the Dwemeri clock; the hour was late, but he could meet with a few Dres nobles so as to inquire them about the salt rice plantations and bid Almalexia farewell. To keep appearances was of utmost importance to him. Passions dwindle and love loses its attractiveness, but it was his duty to convince the world outside of his bedchambers that the king and queen of Resdayn doted upon each other.

***

Kogoruhn was an ancient seat of government for House Dagoth and an impregnable fortress the like of which Nerevar had never seen.

After the nomadic Chimer tribes settled in the lands of Resdayn, House Dagoth quickly rose to eminence, becoming one of the largest and most powerful clans under the charismatic leadership of Phisto the Fair. The fearless persistent mer weren't dismayed by the devastating ash storms or the barren impoverished wasteland which could not give bountiful crops or the dreary landscape and their unabated perseverance was rewarded when in the bowels of the earth they found ebony and glass lodes. A small fortress sprang up at the foot of the Red Mountain, stern as the far-flung heathland and steadfast as the spirit of its inhabitants. Voryn's great-grandfather, before he encroached upon the neighboring Dwemer lands, built its fortifications which withstood many a battle till the dragon tongue of the Nords razed them to the ground. The old tower near the propylon chamber proudly bore the signs of a vicious struggle like a warrior wears his scars, boastful to menace; the stones were darkened by fire and the dome-like roof had here and there crumbled away, revealing the the naked eye patches of light-gray masonry. Opposite of the tower was erected a temple under a flat roof and atop it vigilant sentries in colorful bone armor strutted about, gazing into the wilderness, strewn with rocks, mud ponds and sparse trees, which now rose like a tide, now flattened into gray valleys, now subsided into ravines and upon which the evening cast a veil of dreamy fog. It was a frozen music of nature, molded by no man or mer.

Such was Nerevar's indelible impression of Kogoruhn and as he stepped out of the propylon chamber, he was yet again convinced that the harsh splendor of the fortress was untouched by time. Six years ago he visited Voryn in Kogoruhn and since that day nothing seemed to have changed; the ever-present patches of green lichen on the roof, the banner of House Dagoth which drooped on a windless day, the empty courtyard and dusty stairs – the fortress appeared as he remembered it, recalcitrant and lonely.

On the outside of the propylon chamber, Nerevar was received by Voryn himself and his chap'thil among whom he saw his younger brother Araynys, an Orc in ceremonial robes with silver and golden trim and three guards in bone armor.

“Welcome, lord Nerevar, hai Resdaynia,” Voryn greeted him, bowing low. “I'm afraid I bring ill news. There will be an ash storm tonight. I don't know when the sky will clear up, but wasteland may be impassable in the morning.”

“You know I dislike procrastination,” he answered.

Voryn tossed his head proudly.

“We are ready to depart as soon as the weather allows us unless my lord can teach me how to alter it with magic.”

Nerevar thought of a witty remark to his Councilor's bold sarcasm, but restrained himself and silently nodded his head. Dagoth Araynys extended his greeting to him and Nerevar walked past Voryn, smiling pleasantly at whoever desired his attention. Araynys was of bland disposition and sickly constitution, and of him Voryn spoke with pity and wistful affection, worrying about his health or his involvement in the intrigues of the court. Voryn's brother bashfully took his hand and gave him a blessing of the spirits.

“Please, follow me, serjo,” he said.

They entered a dark hallway with a low ceiling and Araynys led him down a long flight of stairs into a large room festooned with garlands from magelights and coda flowers which gave off a pale soft glow. A magelight was a pellucid glass vessel upon which was cast a charm of permanent illumination and they were often seen in the dwellings of powerful sorcerers whose apprentices saw to it that they were cleaned and lit. A narrow passage connected the room with the Hall of Maki and from its walls Voryn's ancestors, from Phisto to Navam, gazed at Nerevar in solemn silence. The Hortator had heard little of Navam, but from an occasional slip of the tongue and grim glance, he concluded that Voryn and his father were on distant terms before his death or their relationship was outright inimical. Dust kept its secrets well which to a stranger would be no more noticeable than the crevices and cracks in the walls beneath the ruse of comfort, but Nerevar couldn't imagine an old Chimer fortress whose stones weren't soaked in blood and tears.

Araynys showed him a commodious bedroom at the end of the hallway, but Nerevar lingered there only to throw off the heavy Daedric boots and cuirass which were too cumbersome to be worn recklessly. Two bored guards waited for him outside and Nerevar ordered them to escort him to Voryn's chamber where, however, among the luxurious disorder, he didn't find its owner. Voryn's propensity to luxury was diffident; he collected expensive retorts and mortars, old books on magecraft and history of Tamriel which gathered dust deliberately, ancient wooden furniture with heavy carvings and rare enchanted objects of great and little value, like the ring of Self-Immolation. Savage servants of Mehrunes Dagon would walk into Azura's temples – hooded figures in crimson cloaks – and in front of the worshipers and priests they would set themselves on fire, reading the engravings on the ring. Voryn enjoyed amassing such oddities and studying them, regarding satisfaction as its own reward.

Although Voryn wasn't in his study, a complaisant servant in clothes ornamented with House Dagoth heraldry showed Nerevar the way to the stables behind the temple where his master was last seen. The gate to an old wooden building was ajar and therethrough the Hortator saw his friend in a simple attire, tending to the guars in the light of a lone magelight - a gilded flutter of a butterfly's wings in the prison of glass. Nerevar observed Voryn as he tied a long black band four fingers or so in width around the guar's eyes, stroking its head while it chewed on hay.

“The ash storms drive guars mad,” Voryn explained, seeing his confusion. “Ash irritates their eyes and they attack us in rage. They become unruly even for the most skilled riders... I have to cover their eyes before the storm. Perhaps you'd like to help me, my lord.”

“And what will they think,” Nerevar glanced back at the bored guards, “if they see a king toiling at the stables?”

“In Mournhold you would be scorned for it, but we, the desert dwellers, will be impressed with your generosity. Legends have it that Dagoth Phisto worked in the field with her slaves... Others may despise you for it or feel embarrassed by your lifestyle, but we of House Dagoth will laud you for it. Telvanni are profane, Redoran are severe and Dagoth are sublime yet down-to-earth. We don't live by laws of magic or combat, or trade, but by laws of the land. We look for the meaning of our existence, plunging our pickaxes into the barren stone, and strengthen our souls gazing into the empty heathland... There is profundity in the contemplation of death and loftiness in the arduous chipping of the rock. It takes a wondrous sort of perseverance to survive in the lands rich with ore but devoid of life. My brothers help miners and villagers while I... I don't enjoy plowing the land, but I can treat injuries.” Voryn spoke vivaciously and his brilliant eyes were unconsciously riveted on Nerevar.

The Hortator rolled up the sleeves of his expensive blouse and stepped into the warm mud of the barn with the distinct smell of manure about it, barefoot and squirming, but the wrinkles on his forehead were smoothed away when Voryn courteously handed him a band of cloth. He was overcome by a wholesome feeling of appreciation for his friend's unpretentious sincerity. The passion with which Voryn spoke, the tone of his deep voice, the swiftness of his gestures, the meaning of his speech – all of it made a favorable impression on Nerevar. There was subtlety in it of which he was not yet aware, but he felt an amicable fondness when he thought of Voryn as a 'dear friend' which he didn't remember feeling towards Vivec or even Dumac. When Voryn defied him, he was all in a shiver with excitement although Melen's or Cardea's disobedience fomented but his anger. But Nerevar was no more aware of these distinctions than of his breath or furtive glances he darted at Voryn now and then.

...After the ash storm struck, they dined in Voryn's chambers, conversing eagerly and with ease. Voryn's pensive countenance had a placidity about it and he would appear listless if it wasn't for his eyes which shone brightly, dimming not for a moment. Nerevar sat at the table, tasting delicacies from kagouti meat, and they seemed delicious to him although he couldn't quite describe the flavor, being utterly convinced that it was pleasant. Everything seemed particularly pleasant to him, notwithstanding the foul weather of which only the shrill howls of wind reminded him, and the louder the wind groaned, the more homely the room seemed to him and their discourse all the more intimate.

“I have given thought to your words, Nerevar,” Voryn told him. “I... I meant to say, 'lord Nerevar' of course. Forgive me my slip of the tongue.”

“Oh, never mind it!”

“I nevertheless want to apologize for my familiarity. It seems to me I'm overstepping traditional bounds of etiquette, so to speak.”

“Then perhaps you'd like to call me by my full title 'Lord Nerevar Indoril hai Resdaynia, duke of Vvardenfell and Deshaan, king of the sacred land of Veloth, lord of Mournhold...' and so on and so forth. I don't remember it myself... Don't let the adherents of ceremony and tradition hear me! I was Nerevar before I was king and I'm content with that.”

“I don't know if I can allow myself to-”

“In other words,” Nerevar narrowed his eyes, “you're not afraid of offending me. And I've just said I would not be offended however you address me. You don't want to sully your honor which you believe depends on strict observance of some rules. Am I right?”

“You're as astute as ever,” replied Voryn. He had an expression on his face which was akin to dread, but he quickly collected himself. “But if you expect me to explain myself, I won't... It isn't important. You'll be more interested in what I have to say about Azura and Dwemer... I won't repeat what we already know and it is that no doctrine should be judged by the measure of our attachment to it. I wanted to say that I find it unsettling that the Dwemer don't understand love.”

“Love?”

“Why are you surprised? The Dwemer don't know love – not the selfless, blind and passionate infatuation, or a mother's love, or a companion's steadfast loyalty. I'm afraid of an ally who can't reciprocate my affections... Perhaps you've waited for me to admit my fear. But am I wrong? Can you trust someone who regards you as a cog in a machine?”

“It is a common misunderstanding,” objected Nerevar genially, “that the Dwemer cannot feel affection. They condemn strong passions and solidarity among them is not encouraged. Love is not considered worthwhile... A Dwemer must not feel himself to be beholden to others outside of his clan. A Chimer often says, 'I am proud of our noble architecture' although he himself is no architect, but such sentiment is foreign to a Dwemer who takes pride in what he achieved in a lifetime. It's all quite fascinating.”

“Fascinating? You often use that word. What's so fascinating in an idea so foreign to us?”

“We, Chimer, believe ourselves to be superior to others because we received revelations from our gods. I like the word 'change'. We were changed, but we are hardly superior. And we in our arrogance forgot how to feel fascination.”

Voryn didn't like his speech, but he didn't object him and Nerevar tactfully avoided dwelling on the delicate topic, showing an outstanding patience towards him.

“And how's your family?” He asked after Voryn fell into silence.

His friend's face brightened.

“Vemyn and Odros are in the mines, my lord,” he said. “The stale, dusty air of the pits is not wholesome for Araynys's health, so he chose to be a healer. He is the youngest among us and mother entrusted him to my care... I've said it many times, haven't I? He has a kind heart and weak health and I forbade him to involve himself in politics. My late mother would have never forgiven me if I allowed him to do as he pleased.”

“And Gilvoth?”

Voryn talked about his brothers for an hour or so and Nerevar, having no children or siblings of his own, listened to him curiously. They parted on a cheerful note. The Hortator returned to his bedroom and before long he fell into a dreamful slumber. An unpleasant irrational thought arose in his drowsy mind and he fancied Voryn delayed him in Kogoruhn on purpose, but he quickly rid himself of it, cherishing a feeling of sweet anticipation yet not knowing what it was that he so eagerly awaited.

***

At dawn a caravan of six guars was seen to leave Kogoruhn in the direction of the Red Mountain.

The storm abated, in spite of Voryn's sullen predictions, and sparse heavy flakes of ash whirled in the air, carried by the wind. The desert had a gray tinge to it, covered in thick, enduring, triumphal ash. As far as the eye could see, the gray shroud smoothed out the hilly terrain so that it seemed tamed somehow, its harsh clefts and protuberances becoming gentle curves.

All riders but two wore chitin armor and helmets which covered their faces and Nerevar donned a Daedric face of inspiration – a terrifying mask with two horns protruding from its forehead and a red plume. The air was deceptively clear and fresh, but one would be ill advised to breathe it carelessly as those who inhaled it often came down with a dry cough and fever. Voryn clad himself in enchanted robes and slipped a dark mantle with a hood over his shoulders, refusing flatly to 'be burdened by needless frills'.

For a few hours the caravan unhurriedly moved across the lowlands south-east of Kogoruhn and after a brief respite, the riders turned onto Foyada Bani-Dad: a narrow deep ravine on the slope of the Red Mountain strewn with dwarf trees, stumps and stone debris which meandered between the steep cliffs and resembled a ragged scar left by opposing mythopoetic forces that met in battle there in times immemorial. To their right, they saw thin spires and elegant cupolas of the Dwemer towers, to their left stretched familiar wilderness untouched by civilization, and in front of them in bluish morning mist rose an enormous mountain which darkened the horizon, its summit reaching daringly to the sun. The Chimer had many a myth to explain their craving to lay their eyes upon the sacred crown of the Red Mountain, devising many names for it; the Red Giant, the Tower, the Lone Peak they called it and it had a cryptic meaning to them. It was the soul of Resdayn bound in mail of granite and ash, and its heart, treacherous and fiery. It was the symbol of the unknowable, a god in its own right. It was a lonely echo of a distant past of which they heard but glorious legends. It was the core of the world, the cosmic axis, the birth cord which tied the Mother-Void to her child, Mundus. Before the Red Tower Nerevar stood in awe which was foreign to his nature and disposition.

The caravan halted at the foot of a hill patched with coarse grass and dotted with ghostly-white tree trunks which clung to the rocky soil with thin weak roots. Their guide – a herder from Kogoruhn – showed them a path uphill which the guars could not mount and offered to guard the animals until they returned. Nerevar ordered the sentries to remain with her and followed Voryn who cast a spell of levitation on them so that they wouldn't have to clamber up the hill. The Hortator insisted they enter the tombs alone, for he didn't want anyone to witness Azura's secrets, but he deemed it unnecessary to hide from a friend to whom the goddess had already revealed them. It became clear to him there and then that Voryn would be instrumental in defeating his foe, but he could not decide, after the heartfelt conversation, whether he would let him into his plot or he would have to remain unaware of what he had conceived, privy to parts and pieces of it.

As they slowly rose above the bald hill, Nerevar glanced down at the mass of stones which were heaped before the entrance to the burial grounds. If he didn't have a map Vivec drew for him, he would never find it, for it was protected from destructive elements and meddlesome travelers by a pile of rocks which didn't stand out against a cheerless landscape.

Nerevar approached the entrance to the tombs carefully, touched the warm surface of a boulder a few times, thinking of how to make a breach in the natural wall, but Voryn, possessing the quickness of wit which he admired in others because he, too, had it, lifted the largest of the boulders with familiar magic. The undercroft gaped dark and damp in front of them; a flight of stairs was seen to descend into the musty gloom, here and there overgrown with moss and lichen.

Voryn gave him a magelight, explaining that he didn't want to waste his strength on trivial spells like illumination, and Nerevar, feeling the spirit of adventure awaken within him, dauntlessly stepped over the threshold. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Wisdom for a mer's self is a depraved thing_ \- reference to Roger Bacon, "Essays"


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 6: Brothers**

Inside the ancestral tomb, Nerevar counted six empty rooms and thirty-five pedestals each crowned with an ornamental mortuary urn filled to the brim with bonemeal powder soft to the touch and bitter of taste. Unlike many tombs he had shamelessly robbed in the past, it was scrupulously pillaged of everything however little of value and even the sacred adornments were amiss although as loot they were worthless. He debated with the Council for two days and two nights to have a stringent law against the grave robbers adopted. But as the Hortator went deeper into the tomb, swiftly cutting down lesser daedra – scamps, a clannfear and a winged twilight – a different thought occurred to him which grew into a perturbing suspicion. If he could trust Voryn's words, a heretic inhabited the old Chimer cemetery and it could be stripped bare of decorations as a sacrilegious declaration of defiance by a bold, foul will.

Voryn walked beside him, his bearing upright and his countenance expressionless, warning him occasionally about an enemy hiding in the dark room, but he confined himself to terse remarks and didn't elaborate on his observations. He was, perchance, reminded of Bal Fell – the tall ceilings, the labyrinth of hallways, the daedra, the stifling air, and the gloomy foreboding of evil. Yet they stubbornly continued their ascent up the steep corridor which twisted into coils like a snake, comfortably nestling against the bedrock of a mountain slope.

At the end of the corridor, a door opened into a large chamber of an odd ancient design to which testified a barrel vault, ornate pedestals with urns and a bed of ash littered with skeletal remains – bare fingers, skulls, ribs and small bones without count. On the clay rim of the ash bed were placed sixteen candles in a shape of a blazing circle. Many believers in Resdayn deemed 'sixteen' a sacred number: sixteen were the Daedric Princes, sixteen were four times the four corners of the House of Troubles, two times the eight spokes in the Wheel according to Sotha Sil's theories – a symbol of virtue, power, mystery, splendor and accord, of divinity and mortality interwoven within creation and of the harmony of the spheres.

Voryn recognized it, too, in the light of flickering candles.

“What's the meaning of it, my lord?” He asked.

“Azura, you always test my patience and resolve... What is it now, goddess? What must I do?” Nerevar took off his helmet and, raising his voice, added. “Beware, Voryn, and I don't mean of the many skeletons, bonewalkers and scamps we've killed.”

“I know, I can sense her lifeblood.”

“Do you know how unappealing an impression you make on me when you say something like that? Do you hear her heartbeat or her breathing? It must be a creepy and tantalizing feeling, to know if someone's excited or indifferent, or perturbed.”

“It's hardly a feeling, but an aura before my mind's eye, glowing brightly or barely a shimmer... and hers is dazzling. She's powerful, whoever she may be.”

“How do you know you see a woman and not a... plump bonewalker?”

“Have you ever seen a plump bonewalker? Some imagination you have, lord Nerevar.” Voryn had a low ingratiating voice, with a tender cadence at the end of the phrases which could be mistaken for mockery. “I can't explain to you what I see wholly, just as I can't explain Manabi Faren to a newborn. She writes that waters of the Inner Sea shine with transparent gold, but what is a sea to a newborn? Can he imagine a glitter of gold?”

“Do you suggest I'm like a newborn in the art of magic?”

“I don't doubt that you can conjure a fireball which will obliterate the tomb, but the lack of finesse betrays the lack of knowledge, don't you agree?”

Nerevar thought of a response to those truthful words which would allow him to maintain his dignity, but their conversation was cut short when with the suddenness and fury of a thunderclap in a clear sky, a gate to Oblivion opened momentarily, baring its colorful depths. The candles were blown out as though by a strong gust of wind and out of the chink stepped out a golden saint, a daedroth and three scamps. A flash of lightning which struck one of the lesser daedra cast a pale gleam on the ebony shield of the golden saint and the shadowy figure of the daedroth, and the scurrying scamps as disagreeable to his sight as they were to his nose.

Nerevar drew a plain Daedric sword which he took with him when he journeyed incognito. The scamp who rushed at him, the Hortator struck with his shield and crushed its head with a blunt pommel. It squealed and thrashed about like a stray dog in death throes, and he stepped over it with disdain to challenge an Aureal, commonly known among mer as a golden saint. She was a tall woman in a splendid golden armor, her head crowned with a winged helmet and a halo of unearthly light, her tread easy and her movements dazzling, deadly. Unlike scamps – the rats and stray dogs of Oblivion – the Aureals bore resemblance to Resdayn nobility in that they established among themselves a ruling hierarchy and assumed command of the lesser daedra on a battlefield; but if they were summoned by a sorcerer, they demonstrated the greatest disdain for other creatures and wouldn't spare a glance towards a dying clannfear or a scamp. Pity would surge up in him when Nerevar had to kill a creature of such tangible, tantalizing and understandable beauty so unlike an ogrim or a daedroth, or even a winged twilight, but so unwanted a pity didn't defer his deadly blow.

In the movements of the golden saint as she skirted him without attempting to engage in hostilities, there was an allure and swiftness, but Nerevar also saw in them what an inexperienced fighter would fail to notice. When they exchanged blows at last, he slipped the blade of his sword under hers, pushing it forcefully to the side, and leaned forward in a quick, precise, devastating lunge. He withdrew the bloodied sword almost at once as her wound was deep enough to wear her out with time, and hid behind the shield, blocking a furious blow after a furious blow, each more mindless than the one before it. Then the Hortator opened himself briefly, inviting her to strike him down, and she swung her sword wildly, angrily, blood spattering the stone in the wake of her erratic movements. With a step to the side, it glanced off his helmet and she began vanishing with her arm raised menacingly and his blade lodged deeply in her chest.

Voryn made short work of the daedroth and watched them fight, squinting, as though he could truly judge the success of his tactics. He stood in a shaft of bright light, having wasted his magicka on a 'trivial spell', as Nerevar recalled with a smile.

“I've lost the magelight,” the head of House Dagoth explained, frustrated.

Nerevar wiped the blade clean with a piece of cloth and when he turned to Voryn again, he saw him crouching near the charred body of the daedroth and observed with disgust as he plunged his dagger deep into the creature's chest, retrieving a lump of flesh in which Nerevar recognized a heart.

“What's with that intense expression, my lord? A daedra's heart is a very valuable alchemical substance. It's a pity the golden saint vanished upon death or I'd take her heart, too... Do you know how difficult it is to procure one – not to mention two - hearts?”

“Sometimes I believe the reputation alchemical craft receives is justly earned,” muttered Nerevar, ransacking the room on Voryn's request. At last he found a dusty glass flask whereto his friend hastily stuffed his repelling prize.

“A fresh heart is even more valuable. Two-hundred and fifty drakes don't lie on the side of the road... I honestly never took you for a fastidious mer. I've heard many stories about your feats on the battlefield which weren't all too pleasant.”

“Where is the woman... that woman you described to me earlier?”

Voryn pointed his bloody dagger towards a stairway in the wall opposite from them. They mounted it in haste, overtaking each other like sprightly children, and found themselves in another room with bare walls and an altar between two empty stone pedestals. A woman stooped over the altar, old, wrinkled, wiry and disheveled; in her hands she held an old book. When she took note of him, she raised her arm and slowly uttered a spell which didn't bring down a roof on Nerevar's head or render him unable to fight, or summon a legion of daedra – no, the abyss didn't gape under his feet and a stroke of lightning didn't singe his armor, but the woman was engulfed from head to toe in raging flames.

She burnt in eerie silence, as though mocking them in her final moments: her face charred, her skin blackened, her features were terribly distorted, but she didn't once cry out in pain. There was something fanatical and ecstatic in her self-sacrifice, something incomprehensible to Nerevar who would have fought to the last drop of blood and if he could no longer hold his sword, he'd surrender to live another day. He watched the ritualistic death of an unknown woman, having sank into torpor.

It seemed to him he stood in front of a funereal pyre for a whole hour, but it must have been only a few fleeting moments, for when Nerevar recovered himself, the woman still clutched a book in her charred hands. In spite of the scorching heat which emanated from the crooked figure and the heavy odor of burnt flesh, he snatched the book out of her hands and she crumbled away, the ash flakes settling on the floor neatly.

“She used the ring of self-immolation,” Voryn said in a constrained voice.

...After they left the underground tomb which now accommodated another body, Voryn insisted he took off his gauntlets and scrutinized his palms thoroughly for burns. Nerevar indulged his friend although he thought Voryn fussed over him in vain. The healing spell invigorated him and with delight, he sat down on the edge of the cliff, gazing over the cheerless heathland with sickly trees astir in the wind. Under the bright sun the terrors of the musty tomb seemed dreamlike.

“Voryn,” Nerevar said suddenly, “I'd like to ask you for a favor.”

“I'll do anything, my lord.”

“You won't hear what it is I request of you? It's not like you to give empty promises. What if I asked you to steal something?”

“I mean to say,” Voryn corrected himself, embarrassed by his blunder, “I trust your request won't be dishonorable and unreasonable.”

“Well, will you steal something for me?”

“Are you mocking my eagerness, lord Nerevar?”

“No, I inquired in earnest, truly. Galmis Hlaalu is in possession of a map which depicts all Hlaalu trade routs in the mainland; or perhaps one of his children has it, I'm not sure. I require that map to bargain with him... Are you surprised, Voryn? Why would I involve an esteemed High Councilor in a sordid scheme? Or what had Galmis done that was so treacherous to justify my treatment of him?”

“As for your last question, let's say I have a notion of Galmis's transgressions against the crown, but I do not understand why you'd choose me instead of Vivec who's got slick hands.”

“It is true that when I met Vivec, he was an urchin, but his loyalties lie with Almalexia. I know she's involved in all of this somehow, but her involvement – if it's truly her – is very subtle. She won't be caught with her undergarments down... Frankly, I'm not worried about her underhanded plotting, for she and I always find a common tongue.”

“Lady Almalexia is your queen,” Voryn said dryly. “I wouldn't dare ask...” An unpleasant expression appeared on his face, as doubts crept over him. “Will you promise me that if _I_ am caught with, ah... my undergarments down, my family and I won't suffer fateful consequences of my misdeeds? If my reputation's tarnished which is hardly impeccable as it is, I'll accept the less than reverent attitude from the nobility, yet it goes without saying that I won't be held responsible for the theft.”

“I can't give you any assurances. You can't allow yourself to be caught.”

“An urchin will steal a map for a hundred drakes, my lord, and a member of the Thieves Guild for a thousand. Thievery is their vocation whereas mine is magic and politics.”

“I don't trust vagabonds,” Nerevar objected in a conciliatory tone. “And I'll reward you with more than a hundred drakes or anything I can offer the mythical Thieves Guild.”

“I've heard enough, my lord. Your suggestion is appalling and before we say what we'd rather not say aloud, let's not speak another word about the ghastly affair. We've retrieved the book and I imagine you'd like me to cast a spell of recall.”

“There is no need, I always carry an amulet with me. But I'd like to borrow one of your guars rather than walk to Barysimayn on foot.”

“I understand, my lord. Hlera!” Voryn called for the herder.

The Horator was displeased with his friend's decision, but he'd rather continue the conversation in the comfort of a room than in the middle of nowhere, with a glass of wine and a delicious desert, exchanging wry smiles, witty remarks and glances full of affection. He often relied on his unfailing charm to persuade his interlocutor, but the wasteland shrouded in ash was hardly the appropriately intimate setting for such a discourse. And, distracted as he was by the apprehensions about the impending conversation with Azura, he wasn't astonished at Voryn's flat rejection. If he were to arouse her anger her with thoughtless words like he offended his friend, the goddess would exact terrible vengeance on him and his people.

When the herder gave him the bridles of a guar, Nerevar hid the book in the saddle bag.

“Will you read it?” Asked Voryn.

“No, I'm not interested in its contents. Do you think I'm wrong, in having no desire to read it?”

“If you ask me – undoubtedly.”

The Hortator saddled the guar and briefly put his hand on Voryn's shoulder as a gesture of reconciliation. “I'll think about it when I'm with Dumac and act accordingly.”

“Then I wish you safe travels, my lord.”

Nerevar said the proper farewell words with a pang of inexplicable to him regret and followed the guide uphill towards Barysimayn.

***

Barysimayn stood for the citadel in the crater in Dwemeri language. It was a marvel of primeval architecture erected in the heart of battle between nature and mer which even in the most callous of souls evoked unwanted fascination. From the natural walls surrounding an enormous pool of ever-burning lava protruded thin towers with elegant steeples, stone galleries now sparsely, now in great numbers clinging to the rock, and between them were scattered pipes, flues, cog wheels and other machinery of odd shapes, clattering, crackling, rumbling, hissing, and belching out smoke and scorching steam. From the volcanic crater rose, swirling, acrid crimson fog.

Atop the walls was erected a single watch tower, reaching with its steeple towards the sky yet firmly set on earth, broader than it was high and sturdier than it was appealing. The Dwemer architecture was scanty in ornaments, and the watch tower appeared an awkward monolith to the eyes of any man or mer, even as familiar with the Dwemer craft as Nerevar. Therefrom vigilant sentries, alternating every six hours, observed the surroundings of the citadel through powerful magnifying devices which were invented by the Tonal Architect Bhumunz Zanchu three hundred years before the war with the Nords. Kagrenac's predecessor stole Bhumunz's designs, and only posthumously he received the fame he was bereft of in life while the thief was punished with utmost severity by the Dwemer Council whose members didn't take lightly to the theft of inventions. Near the small and round entrance gate wherethrough only two mer could squeeze at a time, towered a mechanical crossbow taller than most Chimer which fired arrows as thick as a warrior's arm.

But the true wonders of Dwemer magecraft were hidden deep beneath the tumultuous volcano and the towers which made but a poor impression on those who didn't appreciate the unadorned grandiosity of stone and ash. Beneath the surface there were halls as long and wide as city streets alight with the lurid reflections of forge fires, pits which accommodated gigantic hulls of airships, rows upon rows of sleeping metallic colossi, statues from pure gold with precious stones as eyes, smithies more ornate than living quarters, and in the bowels of the Red Mountain the sacred dwellings of the Tonal Architects were built where magic transformed into music and music assumed form.

A Dwemer cemetery was, too, a thing of marvel. They immured their dead into walls to prevent their ghosts from returning, but occasionally one would spawn within the stone tomb, wailing lamentably until one of the architects' apprentices released it. Every Frost Fall the Dwemer who lived in Barysimayn celebrated what was known as the night of a hundred ghosts. Some years before Dumac was proclaimed king, the southernmost living quarter was awoken one autumn night by a loud wail, harmonious like a rapturous prayer and delightful like the melody of the Earth Bones. Banishing them whence they came was a sacrilege for any Chimer who dutifully worshiped his ancestors, but Dumac who then served as Protector ordered with somewhat comedic seriousness to placate the ghostly intruders and set them free. Nerevar heard about the incident during the war from a Dwemer who was more sympathetic towards Chimeri traditions than most of his kin.

When Nerevar arrived to Barysimayn, a guard at the gate offered to accompany him to Dumac's chambers through the halls, now silent and empty, past the smoldering forges and dark rooms which seemed abandoned. Once Nerevar saw three smiths tinkering at an airship and, overcome with sincere fascination, he stopped in front of it to admire an incomprehensible marvel of the Dwemer engineering. An airship was comprised of a round brass hull Nerevar fancied to be heavy, a mortar and a stern which served as a battering ram, yet it could somehow soar up to the heavens. In battle the Dwemer possessed no deadlier weapons than their airships. On the distant approaches to the crater, the last army of Nords met a fitting gruesome end; their fearsome thu'um which razed villages and city walls could barely disturb the ancient stones and the Dwemer army had an advantage of ground. The airships rained fire from the sky and when the Nords began to withdraw in disorder, the Chimer host attacked them from the rear, spreading terror among them and thwarting their hopes to fight another day.

No sooner had Nerevar recalled the battle of the Red Mountain than he saw a mosaic on a brazen wall depicting three Dwemer in full height, clad from head to toe in armor of such minute detail that Nerevar saw indentations in their helmets and cuirasses: one with a sword and a shield of trefoil shape, the other with a heavy hammer and the third and tallest of them held a mortar, its muzzle aflame - the warrior, the smith and the Tonal Architect. Another mosaic portrayed the Red Mountain which was about to burst forth with fire and ash.

As they went deeper into the mountain, the air around them grew stifling and the clatter in the furnaces, of the cog wheels, air pipes, steam engines and bellows, louder. In contrast to the mayhem of the lower levels, Dumac's chambers would be quite cozy for a Chimer taste if it wasn't for the excess of heavy steel and stone furniture —stocky tables, angular stools and cupboards, crude benches and washstands. When Nerevar entered, Dumac rose to greet him from the large table upon which was spread out a map, but Kagrenac who was with him, leaning over the map and enthusiastically gesticulating, didn't waste his time on pleasantries. The Chief Tonal Architect struck a noble pose on seeing the Hortator, perhaps conscious of his small stature or from sullen haughty disposition, and he didn't seem eager to hold a conversation. He exchanged a few quiet words with Dumac and hurried to make himself scarce, but not before he cast a withering inimical glance at the Chimer king.

“Don't mind him, Nerevar,” said Dumac after Kagrenac left. “He has a brilliant mind, and the tact of a brute. He'll grumble a little, but he won't recall he ever saw you in a few hours. He remembers everything until another theory of his engrosses him wholly and he forgets what day of what year it is.”

Nerevar took off the daedric helmet and threw back his head, leaning against the table.

“I don't mind him. He's a bit like Voryn, bold, outspoken and disapproving of your every decision from the most honorable of intentions. But I didn't sneak out of the palace to meet with you so as to discuss Kagrenac's character.”

“I' heard about the ugly incident during a Council meeting and you don't have to assure me that you'll curb their ambitions. I'm confident you'll adhere to our agreement to a hair's breadth.”

“You don't know how loathsome it is, to return to the city which you've defended with your sweat and blood, knowing that your wife conspired against you with the head of House Hlaalu. And you have few precious retainers you can trust: your friend, your shield-bearer, and perhaps one of the advisers yet you can't be certain of his loyalty, for he served your wife longer than you. Is it my failure as a king, my fault as a mortal mer? At times – and I say it with shame – at times I feel I don't want this war so that they'll never get their way and for no other sensible reason. I can't let them triumph, will you believe it?.. It's loathsome.”

“You could have confessed your thoughts to Azura's priestess, for I don't understand why you had to marry that woman. You know I never had a fancy for her. She loves herself and her grand ambitions... My queen will be a smith and her pretty little head will be filled with centurion schematics, ship designs and alchemy.”

“Dumac, it's hardly the time to be quibbling about who married whom while our enemies are plotting as we speak. And there was another matter I wanted to bring to your attention.”

The Dwemer king smiled a self-satisfied smile and clapped his hands. A servant in dark livery embroidered with gold and silver came into the room with a tray on which stood two decorative goblets and a wine jar and placed them upon the table. Dumac poured Nerevar a drink with his own hand out of deep respect for him.

“It's too early to be drinking wine.” Nerevar was astonished. “What are we celebrating?”

“Do you only drink on a celebratory occasion? Take the goblet with you and we'll talk in the ebony shaft where my presence is awaited. The air in the mines tastes like dust.”

Nerevar took the goblet between his thumb and index finger as he was accustomed to holding it during feasts and formal receptions and followed the king out of the door and towards a cage guarded by two Dwemer. As they heard the king and his guest approach, they turned the handles on both sides of the fragile cage and a door opened into it with a creak. Nerevar hesitated stepping on the swaying wooden floor which separated him from the gaping abyss of the shaft and when he did step inside, he clutched the rails with both hands, avoiding to look into the black nothingness into which he'd surely fall if it were to break. With a jolt the cage began descending unsteadily, the walls from coarse stone closed around them, the bright light dimmed, and a gust of hot wind wafted along the reek akin to the rotten kwama eggs.

“Now we can discuss your concerns and at the same time I won't be sitting idly in my room. You're my friend, Nerevar, and you know it, but you have a habit of coming by unannounced in the most inopportune time.”

Nerevar frowned momentarily. “I wanted to ask you, firstly, if you've ever heard that an animal or bird native to a particular part of Vvardenfell could be sighted on mainland. I've recently helped someone who was bitten by an animal that never lived in those parts... And perhaps I'm imagining the importance of what I saw, but it struck me as odd that I encountered it to the west of Mournhold.”

“You speak in riddles. What animal did you see on the mainland which seemed out of place?

“Suppose 'twas a nix hound. Does it matter?.. A woman was poisoned by a diseased nix hound and it's not an extraordinary occurrence, but I need to know why the animal wandered into her encampment.”

“I believe you've imagined a significance to an event which could be explained simply. But you should have talked to Kagrenac. He would have probably given you a different answer than I.”

“You know he won't talk to me.”

The cage shook for the last time and came to a standstill. Dumac opened the door, letting Nerevar through, and he got out of the cage with the wine goblet in his one hand and his helmet in the other and looked round himself. They found themselves in a dark corridor, with scarcely a lamp for every twenty strides, which led to a wide tunnel mottled with crates filled to the brim with metal ingots and raw ebony.

A foreman miner approached them with befitting respect to her king and said a few quiet words to Dumac, but he gestured to her to wait.

“In other words, you'd like me to talk to Kagrenac myself. What should I ask him?”

“Don't you remember? Ask him about the nix hounds.”

“Oh, he'll berate me for distracting him from important tasks, but I'll oblige you if only to annoy him. I know what he'll tell me: 'Dumac, why must you pester me with such nonsense! What will it be tomorrow? You'll ask me to interpret dreams?' And I'll tell him: 'Kagrenac, old friend, if I wanted to have my dreams interpreted, I'd go to a Chimer mage.' And he'll laugh at this horrendous joke. The tact of a brute, but what mind! What brilliant mind!.. Was there anything else you wanted to discuss before we part ways?”

Nerevar involuntarily smiled. “I'm flattered by your eagerness. I need to tell you about my misadventures in Bal Fell and then some.”

And the two kings, conversing about this, that and the other, went deeper into the mines.

***

Upon his return to Kogoruhn, Voryn retired to his chambers troubled by Nerevar's words.

He didn't regard the theft of a map as an unforgivable moral turpitude and he would have stolen it for himself or hired someone else to steal it if he were in dire need of it, but he never expected Nerevar whom he deemed above such petty concerns of mortal mer to ask him without prevarication to commit a misdeed. He suspected the Hortator of a weakness or undue gentleness, or even of holding to an erroneous opinion, but it staggered his belief to hear such a request from him.

During the war with the Nords, the enemy commanders destroyed entire Chimer villages with their incredible magics, and Nerevar would in a dazzling righteous anger retaliate without kindness or mercy, slaughtering men and women, slaves and even children, leaving in his wake smoldering coals and carcasses of charred houses. But such ruthlessness wasn't petty, such bloodshed didn't testify to his vanity or greed, and from death something beautiful arose, something sacred and pure.

Voryn couldn't elude a bad omen.

He envisioned them as if he'd seen them with his own eyes, one disaster and then the other, each having its roots in the odd, undue intimacy of their friendship which Voryn dreaded not because it was repulsive to him – no, he dreaded its attractiveness. He stubbornly refused to call the king by his name, he denied himself the joy of his company, he convinced himself of many a lie, but no sooner had Nerevar looked at him favorably again than he felt his fervent convictions wane. For all his shrewdness, the Hortator didn't like thinking far into the future. He had that sort of audacious and lighthearted attitude about him which Voryn wished he could assume instead of contemplating, until he'd feel resentful and repulsed, what the distant future held for him.

Having decided nothing, Voryn lit a fire under the alembic and from a bag he took out a glass flask with a daedra heart, preparing to preserve it in moonsugar alcohol, when he heard a patter of feet outside of his room and voices arguing passionately. Then through the chink in the door came a narrow shaft of light and one of his servants timorously squeezed inside with a glowing lantern in his hand.

“It's your brother Gilvoth, sera,” he mumbled. “He raised quite the ruckus when he came back from his journeys with that... Ashlander girl. We don't know-”

“What Ashlander girl? Speak intelligibly or I'll have you whipped.”

“The Ashlander girl he brought with him. She was... on a... on a leash.”

“An Ashlander girl on a leash! Boethiah take your senseless lot!”

“No, sera, please come with me and I'll show you.”

The servant sounded awfully convinced for someone who'd earn ten lashes for so frivolous a mischief. Voryn blew out the fire under the alembic and followed the servant who led him outside where already gathered a small crowd of people – temple priests, guards, stable boys – around what seemed a young woman on first glance, in a woolen skirt and a blouse adorned with purple flowers. She knelt on the floor, but her humble pose wasn't voluntary and around her wrists and neck was tied a coarse rope. Silent tears streamed down her cheeks, but she didn't beg the crowd to untie her or giver her a glass of water, she wouldn't even move or bow down her head, sitting upright like a mute statue of desperation and defiance. Beside her stood Gilvoth, holding the end of the rope, and Voryn watched him, appalled, as he delivered a speech to the crowd which responded to his words with a sentiment of sympathy.

Gilvoth was younger than Voryn, but on his surly countenance years had left their mark, showing in webs of wrinkles around his mouth and under his eyes, some appearing from excessive drinking and debauchery. After their older brother died by the hand of their father, the brother Voryn knew, free-spirited and devoted to the House, disappeared beneath a conceited angry facade and the more he indulged his nasty habits, the more irascible he became, rushing from one extreme to another. He'd wallow in depravity and then beg the temple priest to allow him to serve Azura, but his new-found dedication would be fleeting, his moods ever-changing, and he always returned to lechery and a skooma pipe. Nerevar called him ungracious – if only rudeness was his sole vice.

“Ashlanders and Argonians are our slaves!” Gilvoth exclaimed, his expression savage, vicious. A gentle wind tousled his unkempt hair. “Their customs are barbaric, their faith vulgar and it is our right to instill in them the proper values of obedience and humbleness. Do not listen to some king who says otherwise. When did your House bow down to a king? Preposterous! My brother would have you believe that we shouldn't fight any more. He'd play a lap dog to the king, kiss his boots and his illustrious arse.” The spectators guffawed and Gilvoth gave the rope a yank. “Show deference to your new master, s'wit!”

“You're not worthy of respect, tormentor!” Cried out the girl.

The crowd parted before him and Voryn confronted Gilvoth before he could deliver another blow, stepping between the girl with a bloody face and his enraged brother.

“I won't allow you to speak ill words about the Hortator in my abode.”

“Not yours – ours, rightly ours, belonging to all sons of our father, Mephala damn him!”

“Lofty words for a slave to a skooma pipe and a bottle of brandy who can't distinguish between slaves and a free people! Guards! Chain him in fetters and take him out of my sight!”

“You won't dare, brother!”

But Voryn's manners and voice were so terrifying that his chap'thil obeyed him at once, in spite of Gilvoth's verbose protests. Shackled and humiliated, his brother was taken to the dungeon and Voryn with a heavy heart leaned over the girl to untie a knot on her wrists. When she shrank away from him in fear, a temple priestess stepped out of the crowd which began to disperse from boredom and asked his permission to tend to her. On receiving his silent encouragement, the priestess knelt on the ground by the hunched girl and between her palms shone a bright spark. Many priests cast healing spells, accompanying them with a hand gesture to ward off evil spirits.

“Who are you? Where is your home? I need to know,” Voryn said softly.

“I am the daughter of Ahemmusa, the great tribe to the north of the stone fortress.”

“I'll have someone accompany you there after you rest a bit.”

“No, I don't trust city-dwellers and I won't accept their pity, yours least of all. If that mer is your brother truly, I'd disown him if I were you, for my father will demand a harsh punishment and he'll appeal to the Great Ashkhan himself.” The priestess loosened the knots on the rope and the girl adroitly shook it off, standing before him upright and proud, lean, sunburnt and freckle-faced. “Except your priests... I trust Azura's priests. Send a priestess with me... please...”

Voryn lowered his eyes, not knowing what to say to this personification of fierceness whose defiance was suddenly eclipsed by a quiet despair, bowed deeply in agreement and turned away, looking at the sky hazy with clouds. His heart was filled with a quiet loathing, and his brother he loathed most of all, his enmity and contempt growing inside him hour by hour, day after day until the ill feeling would burst forth, and he awaited that day hopelessly, with inexhaustible patience tolerating those misdeeds yet not knowing why he tolerated them. Whatever he felt towards his brother, it couldn’t be love anymore and it wasn't yet a deep-rooted aversion, a mixture perhaps of the most sacred and most base, poisoning him slowly. 

He called for Gurak and took a lantern from him with trembling hands so as to illumine the way to the dungeon deep below the living quarters and the summoning chamber. It was truly a dismal place, lacking even the most attractive feature of a wasteland – expanse; without the sun the soul wilts and the body withers, without the wind and stars in the sky the heart wastes away. Voryn didn't envy the prisoners who spent many years without a commodity as paltry as a view from a window, but he didn't come down to the prison often and preferred to banish from the mind any and all thoughts about their fate. Slowly, so as not to slip on the wet stones, he walked down the steps, plunging into darkness, and the sounds and smells of the outside world faded away except for the ever-present stench of damp mildew or lichen, or rot. At the bottom of a staircase a guard waited for him. He opened a rusty grating with a key and Voryn stepped into a small room with dark cobblestone walls, a rough wooden table and two chairs of no less crude workmanship.

Gilvoth had the effrontery to sit with his legs on the tabletop, but Voryn pretended he didn't even notice the challenge in his pose, speaking to him coldly as though he was a petty thief who stole his guar.

“Gilvoth, I'll be visiting the Ahemmusa Ashkhan in the evening and I'll talk to him about your punishment, but I'm in no position to argue in your defense. Do you wish to confess?”

“You always talk like a priest and priests bore me, their self-righteous sermons and pointless admonishments. I always wanted to be a priest before I talked to them; they seemed so... mysterious to me. Ha-ha-ha! You ask if I confess... Well, you're my brother, you'll think of something.”

“If you believe that-”

“Of course, I do. You always intervened with father on my behalf and I somehow escaped punishment, for that stolen kagouti meat and missing vials with alit poison. Do you think I forgot? Perhaps I wish to be punished, or perhaps it's all a jest and I meant nothing by it.”

“You're insufferable, Gilvoth.”

“You understand nothing about women, you never fancied them. Whatever it is that you desire, it's not a woman. A nix hound? I've heard rumors that you can with some practice – although how do you practice that? - do it with a guar.”

“Malacath's blood curse! If you believe I will sit here and listen to you spouting impudent nonsense, you're greatly mistaken,” said Voryn, rising form the table.

Gilvoth changed countenance and quietened down. “I'll comply. I'll confess if that's what you wish. What do you want to know? An insufferable scoundrel Gilvoth hunted for some nix hound meat and he saw a pretty woman, a huntress, too, walk by. She didn't see him, so he ambushed her and captured her, and tied her hands and legs with a rope. It was an Ashlander woman, that slave breed!”

“We were all Ashlanders under prophet Veloth before we settled behind the walls of cities. And even if she were an Argonian slave or servant, you can't abduct someone's servants.”

“They're all of slave breed to me... Will you write that down? Do write it!”

A sudden unpleasant thought occurred to Voryn and he ceased listening to Gilvoth's ramblings. His arguments to Nerevar, his resentment against the Dwemer were partly senseless and stubborn, as were his brother's. He laughed without mirth at this grotesquely exaggerated similarity which arose unwanted yet vivid in his mind.

“I will not defend you, brother,” he said, interrupting Gilvoth before he concluded his speech. “I'll go to the ashkhan and I'll accept punishment on your behalf, and accede to all of his demands if they are within reason... I cannot defend you in all conscience, do you understand me? I couldn't have defended myself if I've done something so wretched.”

“Voryn, wait!”

But the head of House Dagoth which was presently in turmoil knocked on the grating, deaf to his brother's entreaties, and when the guard opened the door, he didn't glance back at him. Araynys waited for him by the stairwell, but Voryn, too, ignored him in spite of the familiar plaintive expression on his face. He mounted the stairs at a run, but he was hardly aware he was running, thinking about the forthcoming meeting with the Ahemmusa Ashkhan and how nothing gratifying would come out of it. In his chambers he threw a few potions and scrolls in a small leather saddle bag while explaining the dumb-founded servant how to preserve the heart in ice and balms until he returned from the camp. Those were senseless movements, for he knew that whether he met with the ashkhan that day or later or never at all, it would all be the same. The Ahemmusa Ashlanders had camped half way between Kogoruhn and the coast of the Sea of Ghosts for five seasons and during those five seasons they showed themselves respectful polite neighbors. They never quarreled with any of the House nobles as it often happened when an Ashlander camp sprang up in the lands of a powerful lord and not once on Voryn's memory did they dare steal from him or his brothers.

And yet Voryn still went to meet with their leader, for if he didn't try to negotiate with him, he'd be guilty of something more gruesome than senselessness.

***

The Ahemmusa camp hid from adverse winds and ash storms in a valley between two hills. The valley was quite unremarkable except for the dry riverbed through which in times out of mind flowed a river, emptying turbid and tumultuous into the sea, but it had long since dried up, stretching across the parched forsaken land, itself parched and forlorn, and if it wasn't for the gently sloping banks on both sides of it, utterly indistinguishable from it. To the nearness of an abode testified a flimsy fence with gaping holes, a pack of guars by a rack and further a hut under a roof from silt strider's chitin shell. An Ahemmusa Ashlander lived without many precious amenities to which a settled Chimer was accustomed, yet it couldn’t be said that he suffered from abject poverty or that he was miserable without them.

It was well into the evening when Voryn's guar trudged into the camp and many Ashlanders gathered at some distance from them, watching him and his chap'thil dismount yet not daring to approach them save for the temple priestess who accompanied the wounded girl. The Ashkhan didn't come to greet his guests, but of itself it wasn't a sign of his staunch disfavor, as he perchance didn't expect them until morning. In darkness Voryn couldn't see the faces of Ashlanders and in the same manner he had to guess the Ashkhan's moods, he pondered if he had incurred their animosity already.

The Ashkhan and his gulakhan waited in the gulakhan's yurt, greeting Voryn and his chap'thil coldly, and if they were astonished to see him, they were careful not to express any of their astonishment. Voryn didn't see the girl whom Gilvoth caused offense or the Wise Woman who would often dampen down the Ashkhan's zeal; only the Ashkhan and his champion were present, and in such display of power he felt a solemn challenge. Their garments, too, were provocatively bright: jaundiced, crimson and mauve blouses, skirts with dark stripes, decorated with an abundance of jewelry and garish adornments from cliffracer feathers.

They exchanged curt bows and the Ashkhan who introduced himself as Dun-Ilu offered them to take a seat on the woolen carpet.

“We were never enemies, city-dweller,” Dun-Ilu said. “We traded decorations from sea shells, pearls, and clothes for your weapons and potions and we paid our dues to the last drake. We didn't rob caravans like our misguided brothers and sisters without a tribe. Is it true that we abode by the laws of your land?”

“I find no falsehood in your words, Ashkhan,” said Voryn.

“If I spoke the truth, why must you repay us with humiliation, beatings and murder?”

“But there was no murder!”

“No, city-dweller, you haven't murdered anyone yet, but it's only a matter of time before you in your savagery will kill one of us. And you call us savages! That girl meant no harm to you or your brothers while she was hunting kagouti and yet you injure her so. If you believe that by coming here you will mollify me, get out of my yurt.”

“I will admit that the thought did cross my mind, but I assure you that it's no longer my intention to convince you to alleviate Gilvoth's punishment. He may be my brother, but I'm no common scoundrel.”

“For a city-dweller, you are too tractable,” remarked the gulakhan. “The House lord usually comes with fire and steel, not words, or if he talks, it's just threats and other meaningless patter.”

Voryn smiled thinly. “I haven't threatened you yet, even though you suggested to throw me out of your yurt. Let's do away with the threats altogether and examine the nature of the offense.”

“The Wise Woman says she was beaten and violated in a gruesome manner. I'm no city quack, but when I'm told 'violated in a gruesome manner' I understand it for what it is – a gruesome violation.”

“A violation? I've never been told there was a violation of any sort, gruesome or otherwise.”

“Then talk to your priestess. She's the god's witness, she is sworn not to lie.”

The gulakhan called for the priestess and she followed him into the yurt, looking uneasy and frightened.

“Tell me about the girl,” Voryn told her sternly.

“I healed her wounds, sera, and I talked to her, but there was nothing else I could do for her. Such poor creature. She wouldn't tell me, you see, what happened to her, but she needn't say a word. Such offense is adverse to Azura's teachings, and I won't defile my soul by repeating what the Wise Woman told me.”

“Are you sure a violation of body was committed?”

“On Azura's name I swear: it is as the Ashkhan said. Your brother, sera, is a disgrace to your noble family.”

The priestess was moved to tears and she was allowed to leave the yurt upon giving her testimony. Dun-Ilu turned to Voryn with an air of self-assured confidence about him, as if telling him wordlessly that his victory was imminent.

“If you don't agree to my conditions, I'll appeal to the Hortator himself and you know he'll lend me his ear. Of all the rulers Resdayn had, he is most sensitive to the troubles of Ashlanders. But agree to my demands and I'll still write him, however, I'll speak favorably about your involvement... I demand the following. Firstly, your brother must be imprisoned, but the girl's soul won't rest in peace if he stays in Kogoruhn's prison. What if you decide to release him prematurely? My camp isn't suitable for him either, for the Ashlanders don't take prisoners; we don't feed them or clothe them. They are lost to us. For petty offenses, we exile them or give them over to the city; for grave offenses we execute them... Secondly, I demand that neither you or any one in your family ever approach her. Forget she exists, even if she won't forget you. And, lastly, I demand that the matter be brought to the Hortator's attention and there be a hearing in the city. It must be written somewhere that your brother is sentenced to so many years in prison and so on. Your apology I do not need or desire to hear.”

As the Ashkhan spoke, Voryn's face darkened and he flashed him a furious glance, restraining himself from lifting up his voice until Dun-Ilu concluded his ardent speech.

“You know I can't agree to it!” He exclaimed hotly after the Ashkhan came to be quiet. “I can agree to your request to imprison my brother for as many years as it will be agreed upon and wherever it will please you. But later your demands assume an unreasonableness, an impermissible boldness even. Write to the Hortator if you so wish, but I won't allow you to smear my family's reputation with insinuations about a hearing in the city. We settle this matter here, now, or I'll drag you down with me. I helped Gilvoth as much as I could, but my family won't suffer for his transgressions.”

“Then we aren't in agreement and I won't stoop to haggling.”

“Well, I'll ask you to reconsider. What's in it for me? I lose either way, but you'll spare my family the humiliation. You, however, in your greed will forsake an offer of peace. A victory may appear certain until the wind of change blows in the direction you don't like. I never asked the priestess how she knew what you've said if she wasn't here with us at the time, and perhaps it was a slip of the tongue. Who but Azura knows? But if she lied, knowingly or unknowingly, out of zeal to see the culprit punished, how will you explain it to the Hortator?”

“The Hortator's name is sacred among our people. He is just, he'll know there was no lie.”

Dun-Ilu was implacable, and Voryn felt weary of the discourse and justified in his deep misgivings. He rose from the floor while the Ashkhan was explaining to him that it was blasphemous of him to suggest that the priestess lied, having called him an arrant knave, and, lifting the fur draping which served as a door to the yurt, he stepped into the night. It was cold and quiet, and the bloody Masser ruled the pristine sky unchallenged. Voryn was tempted to ride a guar with his chap'thil, but he knew the answer to Nerevar's question and that answer wouldn't let him enjoy the idyll. He touched a warm amulet which was tied round his neck, whispering a few words, and watched the world around him spin violently, part before him like the immutable dark waters of a nightly lake, collapse upon him, and all was still again – still yet never quiet.

 ***

In the evenings Almalexia's bedchambers were barely lit and the queen enjoyed reposing herself on a fur bed with a book or with one of her maidens by her side who would tell her stories to which she would listen with a sweet languorous look, or with a bamboo flute. In her lips the unpretentious instrument emitted heavenly sounds – gentle like a purl of a mountain rill or wistful, forlorn like wind chasing after a tumbleweed, or merry, boisterous, full of life.

Nerevar heard the melody of the flute as he was coming down the stairs which led to the eastern tower and as he was, in the dusty armor and hungry, he went to his wife's chambers to listen to her music. Her rooms abutted upon his and connected them a narrow passage in the walls of whose existence they alone knew. The door was hidden under the luxurious tapestry with Azura and prophet Veloth which was given to Nerevar as a gift by the head of House Dres and he often used the passage to surprise Almalexia when they were young and inseparable or, rather, he was young and it seemed to him that they were inseparable.

The passage door in Almalexia's room was behind another tapestry of a similar design which portrayed a lone wanderer who found an odd shrine in the forest and behind him, outstretching his right hand towards him and holding a sword in his left, stood a hooded warrior, half-man and half-snake. It was Boethiah, not wholly a man or a woman, or a serpent spirit and the scene Almalexia chose from a famous book, 'Boethiah, the temptress'. She often said she found the sight of the warrior-god soothing.

The queen sat on a gilded chair, playing the flute with abandon, and Nerevar came up to her quietly so as not to give himself away with a careless gesture. She played and the melody rose to unimaginable heights and faded away, thrilling, mighty, and grieving. When he asked her how she learned to play the flute, she said that Vivec had taught her, but even his youngest Councilor couldn't play so skillfully.

Almalexia, however, heard him approach in the cumbersome armor and put aside the flute, her head atilt and lips parted in wonder.

“I thought you were away or in your room, asleep,” she said. “I didn't know you cared for this silly habit of mine to play music in the evening.”

“And you're alone; consider me, too, astonished.”

“You left and sent Vivec away to Holamayan. Sotha Sil is with the Psyjics, conversing about magic and nature, and topics incomprehensible to you and I. Of course, I'm alone; I'm always alone, ruling in your absence and advising in their stead. I'm a queen and an errand-girl and what am I more, a queen or an errand-girl?”

“Why do you say you are an errand-girl? What a silly sentiment!”

Almalexia gave a contemptuous wrench of her shoulder. “Believe what you will, it hardly concerns me... Are you here to make peace with me?”

“No, I enjoyed your music, my lady. Am I not allowed to enjoy it?... But perhaps you'll help me summon Azura, what do you say? The ritual is long and if I don't arrange the candles in time or forget a perfume, she will get angry with me.”

“Azura... only you are infatuated with her, the rest of us are mere believers. But I'll help you if we summon her together, bend the knee to her together and listen to her wisdom together.”

“I won't object to that. Meet me in the western tower, in that room with large windows facing the bazaar... Do you remember that room?”

“It's my favorite room, the view of Mournhold from there is breathtaking.”

“Meet me there in an hour and bring bug musk perfume, coda flowers and candles.”

The book was heavy in his hands, but the writing on the pages was intelligible and sparse, and by the time the hour elapsed, Nerevar would read most of it and some of its contents he'd even memorize.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Barysimayn_ \- This name is only mentioned in a rare Morrowind book "Poison Song" and probably it's not the original Dwemeri name for their citadel in the Red Mountain (before it became Dagoth-Ur), but the text isn't really clear about it and I really liked the sound of it. It's fitting in my view


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a lot of fun to write :)

**Chapter 7: The sinking of Mzuanch  
  
**

Nerevar awoke from a light touch on the shoulder and, raising his head from the book upon which he had fallen asleep, scrutinized a woman in the shadows: bareheaded, buxom, her posture tense, her familiar features overcast; yet her eyes shone with merriment, conflicting with her somber demeanor. He could never decide whether it meant that she carefully restrained her jubilance in his presence or that she was sullen and cross with him, but in spite of her ill mood, she could not contain her wild enthusiasm.

“Nerevar, we'll be late if you don't wake this very moment,” Almalexia said.

The queen wore an ornamental loincloth which reached her knees on one side and bared her full thigh on the other and over her shoulders she slipped a short fur mantle to protect herself from nightly chill. Her hair lay orderly on her shoulders, as if she had not fallen asleep even for a moment; still, a few unruly red locks came out from underneath a small ebony diadem and in a carefree way scattered on her brow.

Nerevar drew himself up and his gaze again fell upon the ill-fated book which he was reading until slumber overcame him and with which a strange woman refused to part until death, her reasoning becoming clear to him as he breached the cache of sacred mysteries. Azura did not forbid him outright to read the “Revelations” and, obeying a curiosity which suddenly took possession of him, akin perhaps to Sotha Sil's, he peeked inside: into a churning pit of the unknown. The book abounded in stories, parables, vague prophecies and conversations between a mysterious priestess, Boethiah and Azura. Nerevar concluded that the priestess didn't wish to convince a future reader that many years ago the Prince of Plots sat down with her to discuss lofty matters, suspecting that how she chose to expound her thoughts was no less significant to his understanding than what she intended to say, but both the importance of the colloquial form and the meaning of her words passed his comprehension. One such conversation Nerevar scribbled down on a piece of paper which he hid in his pocket, but it was so short that he recalled it word for word without having to refresh his memory.

> _The Priestess: Once I observed the moons from the window of my hut and it occurred to me that I knew little about the founding of the Great Chimer Houses._  
>  _Boethiah:_ _Divide like your enemies in Houses, I told them, and lay your laws in set sequence from the center, again like the enemy Corners of the House of Troubles. And let there be more Houses than Corners, but also strive towards unity and do not cause strife meaninglessly.  
>  __The Priestess: And did they please you?  
>  __Boethiah: Does it please me that you have two legs and two arms? And yet it is splendid and sensible that you have limbs which, it seems to me, you've put to good use._

Many conversations were even less perspicuous, lacking at times coherence, at times structure and a theme to bind together disjointed words and sentences.

“Nerevar, hurry!” Almalexia reminded him of his pressing obligations.

Nerevar heeded his wife's advice and with a brisk determined gait, crossed his bedroom and went out into the hallway. Almalexia was hectic, urging him on to begin the summoning ritual, yet she said little else and the candle in her hand quivered, as though sharing the queen's impatience. In the dead of night, the palace transformed: sentries resembled lifeless statues and statues seemed asleep, windows were doors into the abyss, the silence was oppressive and their steps, however light, echoed loudly in the shadow of the invisible walls of whose presence they were aware owing to a certainty – in which they sometimes wavered! - that during the day they had surely seen them. The room of which Nerevar spoke to Almalexia earlier abutted upon a small windowless chapel and from there they brought a stone altar, a few candles and a prayer mat from willow anther, and they placed the altar in the middle of the room, the mat by the altar and arranged candles around the altar so that, if connected, they formed a sixteen-pointed star. The tall narrow windows – four in total – overlooked the river and the western bazaar, illumined by a great accumulation of torches and magelights. On each of the four windowsills Nerevar put two coda flowers, peering into the fiery reflection of torchlight which hung in the sky above the bazaar. The Great Bazaar was littered with seedy taverns, brothels, gambling houses, and skooma dens which abutted upon reputable shops or disguised themselves as rich establishments, rising up to the dimness from the wind-borne smoke and torchlight glow, and whose frequenters engaged in merriment, celebration and revelry and concluded their shady deals under the cover of night, for everything was sold on that bazaar: love which lasted only a night, skooma, fortune-telling, fortune-teller's virtue, aphrodisiacs from the nectar of a horned lily, potions said to cure impotency, slaves, magic scrolls for a drake which would sooner maim the unfortunate buyer than conjure a fireball, cheap furs, aromatic candles which could cause dullness of the mind – all manner of trinkets and commodities which couldn't be found anywhere in the realm but in Mournhold. The bazaar never truly slept and Nerevar was once drawn to that inextinguishable light until he understood that people came there seeking happiness, but contented themselves with excess of pleasure which they mistook for happiness, not knowing that they had deceived themselves.

Then the Hortator spent an hour drawing an intricate figure on the floor, now and again asking Almalexia for a piece of charcoal. When he gave the finishing stroke to the geometrical figure, the day broke cloudless and radiant, and the darkness scattered before the tremendous conflagration of colors, lingering here and there in timid dark spots, and on the canopy of heaven alternated light, shade and vibrant hues, heralding the triumphant arrival of Azura. Nerevar knelt by the altar and, having seized Almalexia's hand, pulled her towards him, but she freed herself from his grasp and looked at him with outrage.

“I will not say the prayer if you do not join me by the altar,” explained Nerevar. 

Almalexia came to her senses and, fiddling about with her fur mantle, knelt by his side with her arm outstretched conciliatory towards him. The Hortator touched her cold fingers and called upon the goddess, speaking familiar words – the same words with which Voryn, unbeknownst to him, addressed her in the summoning ritual. 'Should I confess to Azura that I read the book?' Nerevar thought to himself, awaiting the appearance of the goddess in anguish. 'Or perhaps I should say nothing of it until she asks me – if she asks me!'

Nerevar perceived Azura differently than some of her priests and worshipers, owing his opinion of her to the intimate knowledge she revealed to him, but he rarely believed it worthwhile to argue with her uneducated servants. He felt an affinity to her – if a mortal could even boast of such an affinity to a god – and it frightened him at times to observe in himself the vanity, the egoistic anger and the conniving cruelty of Azura, even if he wasn’t concerned first and foremost with salvation of his conscience. It was quite the opposite: if Azura were anything like him, there was no telling what acts of cruelty she would commit if her followers angered her. Nerevar didn't fear anyone in the realm more than he feared his capricious goddess and in her presence he would abate his pride and forgo his stubbornness so as to please her in every way imaginable.

“Welcome, my Champion!” Azura appeared in a dress woven from mist and her voice was like thunder, and a sweet aroma of roses filled the air in her wake. “You did well. You retrieved the book that was stolen from me and my unwise priestess died a fitting death. Do not pity her; I sealed her fate when she stole an object of utmost importance from my temple. By your hand or by the hand of another she would have died and let her death be a lesson to you: I am watchful! I will reward my loyal servants generously and cast down my enemies... But tell me, my chosen Champion, did you read even a passage from that book?”

“I do not wish to incur your wrath, goddess,” Nerevar whispered with that weary hang of the head on one side, but Azura merely smiled and a star on her forehead shone brighter.

“I'm not displeased that you gave in to your your curiosity. I did not forbid it; on the contrary, I fostered it in you. Who, holding such a book in his hands, would not be tempted? The mysteries which trouble your heart always belonged to the temple of my faithful followers, so read from the book whenever you wish.”

“The priestess who wrote this book... it was her I saw in that tomb, didn't I?”

“It was her indeed, withered from age and evil desires, cursed by her god and the world she so loved. To her were revealed the secrets of creation, but she disavowed those who taught and nurtured her and hid in an old cave so that the book she authored would never see the light of day.... A fruitless endeavor!”

Suddenly Almalexia gave Nerevar a nudge and whispered into his ear something unintelligible about that godforsaken book, but he scowled at her and she fell silent.

“Goddess, I find myself in dire need of your wisdom,” he addressed Azura hesitantly. “It was my understanding that... Perhaps I am undeserving of it, but I believe you had an agreement with my loyal servant,” (here Almalexia laughed quietly) “that if I returned your book to the temple, you would advise me how to act in my present circumstances.”

“My loyal Champion, you can arrive at the same conclusions without my help, but it pleases me that you appealed to me nonetheless... Ask yourself: what does Molag Bal strive for, besides enslaving the races of Nirn?”

“To wreak vengeance on Boethiah...”

“That, too, he terrible desires, but something he wants even more than upsetting his rival; he wants to walk on Nirn in his true form, to possess Nirn, to proclaim it his kingdom. That is what he wants most of all, amusing himself in the meantime with enslaving the souls of unfortunate mortals.”

“And how does he intend to accomplish such a feat?”

“To learn the answer to that question, you must travel to the ruins of a Dwemer city called Mzuanch and find my corrupted Star. You'll have your answer when you lay eyes upon the soul gem which I once gifted to you, now misused and black and dead.”

Nerevar bowed deeply to the goddess and promised her to complete the quest, severing all tethers with Moonshadow which compelled Azura to appear to him in the mortal realm; and when the tethers were severed, he saw that his hands trembled and he sat down by the altar in deep agitation. His handsome face was contorted by an unpleasant grimace and Almalexia didn't fail to remark scathingly on it. He told her that he wanted to be alone, but she fell upon him like a cliffracer and, having clutched his shoulders, burst out laughing.

“So you'll explain nothing to me? I came with you in vain to meet with the goddess!”

“There must be peace between us, and till then I'll ignore however urgent a need to explain myself to you,” he objected.

“A fancy way of saying that I must offer you something in return for your candor, something of considerable importance to myself.”

“Ah, Almalexia, I want nothing from you! But there is something I need to tell you regardless, as a gesture of my good will... Come with me. I'm sure Sil won't mind if we intrude into his secret cave in his absence.”

At times, in spite of the vast difference in their age and opinion, they understood each other without words, seeing through the pretense and the falsehoods and the meaningless sophistry. Almalexia realized fully that what Nerevar was about to reveal to her was earth-shattering even if he would never admit it to her, and she assured him wordlessly that she would not take his words lightly. Then she called for a servant girl – a timid Khajiit – and ordered her, on leaving the summoning chamber, to put it in good order. Nerevar followed after his wife and overtook her in the enormous dining room which began filling with servants and nobles of all ranks who looked at them in wide-eyed astonishment and whispered to one another quietly. A captain of the palace guard offered them an escort, but when Nerevar refused it, it caused a stir amongst the nobles and the crowd of spectators in motley garments billowed. A murmur of uneasiness made itself heard, even as Nerevar tried with some difficulty to ignore it; the nobles were asking each other why the king and the queen wouldn't eat a morning meal with them while the servants giggled and coughed meaningfully.

Almalexia took his hand, or rather, squeezed it firmly, as if she was protecting him somehow, and her grand gesture amused Nerevar, for he remembered how she led him in front of many nobles who wished them harm so as to announce to everyone that she would take him as husband and in that ever-changing sea of inimical mer and men, she was his only refuge and he was hers. After the war with the Nords, the House nobles were divided in opinion on who should claim the crown of Resdayn; some believed that Almalexia should ascend the throne as the rightful queen of all Chimer instead of Nerevar who was of common birth and others were convinced that the Hortator who won the support of the army, emboldened by his splendid victories over their sworn enemy, was a better choice of a ruler. And they quarreled bitterly for many months, threatening to declare war on one another. As the last desperate attempt to pacify the angry nobles, a Councilor of House Indoril suggested a marriage between the two worthy candidates who happened to be, 'as the Three willed it, a man and a woman'. Many sensible minds understood that a fratricidal war waged so shortly after the campaign against the Nords would cripple Resdayn, and on the tenth day of Hearthfire they were wed in the presence of many House nobles and priests, in doing so proclaiming not the love for each other but the love for the land of their ancestors – the most sacred sentiments of all.

Almalexia stopped by an unobtrusive stone behind Boethiah's statue and uttered a few words, running her fingers over its mossy surface until a satisfied smile lit up her face. Whatever the effect of her words was, it was akin to a spell which negated magics but infinitely more complicated. They stepped over the threshold of the familiar cave where Sotha Sil studied his clandestine arts, and at once the Dwemer sphere sensed them, coming to life with a whirr. It rolled towards them with its sword-arm raised to attack, but Almalexia fearlessly walked up to the mechanical guardian and put it back to sleep.

“Sotha Sil gave me keys to his magical wards, but it astonishes me that he didn't change – not one bit!” She exclaimed, looking round herself wildly. “The illusion spells, the machines... It's predictable and he cannot be so artless.”

“Almalexia, rather than berating an imaginary Sotha Sil, look over there,” Nerevar pointed to the cage in the dark, damp corner.

“An ugly creature! Sil shared his theories with me and he described it to me, but I never thought it would be so repulsive. Why did you bring me here, Nerevar? To gaze upon this abomination?.. You found it in Bal Fell, didn't you?”

“Yes, and now Mzuanch... Tell me I am right, Almalexia!”

“You're not wrong, Nerevar, and we have to storm Mzuanch... or whatever is left of it by now. When Jarl Jolgeir brought down the might of his thu'um upon its walls, not much remained of the town and it was many years ago...” Almalexia thoughtfully touched her chin. “Do you suppose that Molag Bal's followers, having failed in Bal Fell, scurried like rats into another godforsaken hole?”

“I don't know, but we'll find out for ourselves, won't we? I won't make the same mistake twice, I won't underestimate them. I'll take Ashlander scouts with me-”

“And I'll command the Indoril guard,” added the queen eagerly, but it seemed to Nerevar she was ashamed of her eagerness. “I'll send out orders at once. Would you like me to ask Voryn on your behalf?”

“No, don't ask him, whatever you do. It isn't necessary. If 'twas necessary, I'd ask him myself.” Nerevar approached the cage with the creature and repeated what he'd already said, fixing his warm gray eyes on his wife. “Whatever you do, do not tell him anything, for he will follow me to the ends of Tamriel, my poor Voryn. I want him to be with his family until disaster strikes and, mark my words, we won't have to wait much longer. The month of Evening Star is not far off.”

***

On the next day, after a late breakfast, Nerevar received emissaries of the Alessian Empire. After he and Dumac attended the coronation of Emperor Goreius, each Emperor after him made it a habit to visit Resdayn in person or send representatives in his stead to exchange customary pleasantries and assure the Hortator that the Empire remained his most loyal ally. In practice their bold assertions were far from true, but it benefited Nerevar to keep up appearances of an alliance between his kingdom and the Empire of men. Fewer audacious nobles would dream of challenging him for the throne, knowing that at the first sign of trouble many foreign ships were ready to land on the shores of Resdayn and defile the land of their ancestors with their presence. The irony of fate was that the many prejudices which plagued Chimer people safeguarded Nerevar's reign as king and Hortator and he saw to it that even his opponents unwittingly secured him victories.

The emissaries arrived with great pomp, garbed in heavy silks and velvet, and immediately some sharp-witted servant named them 'yellow coats' for the prevalence of that unpleasant color in their ceremonial attire. The 'yellow coats' arrived at the palace on their well-bred horses, boasting about an obvious advantage in speed and endurance a good white mare had over a guar, and Nerevar offered his guests to settle the dispute by letting their animals compete against each other and entertain them with a good and fair contest. The emissaries eagerly agreed to the Hortator's stipulations: it never occurred to them that he would trick them. Nerevar was well aware that in speed a guar could never contend with a well-fed fast horse, however, on a hot sunny day no horse would outlast an animal native to the ash wasteland.

On the eastern bank of the river which washed the tall walls of Mournhold, a little after noon, the servants lined up a few crude benches along a rutted road, but on Nerevar's orders they didn't put up any tents to protect the spectators from the swelter of the autumn sun. From his stables the Hortator chose his favorite guar and pitted it against a white horse from the outlanders' retinue. The emissaries, lavishing all manner of praise on the palace and Chimer hospitality, hastened at the appointed hour to the makeshift arena and the Hortator gave the signal to begin the race. It was not as splendid an event as the guar races in Mournhold, but the guar demonstrated once again why since time immemorial the nomadic Chimer preferred their scaly companion to a horse. The horse led for five laps and on the sixth lap it began to fall behind no matter how many invectives emissaries hurled at it, and soon even the outlanders were out of breath, becoming more engrossed in wiping their damp foreheads with embroidered handkerchiefs than in watching the race. They were sweating profusely under the bright sun in their heavy garments, but if a guest did not wish to disgrace himself in the eyes of his host, he couldn't complain about any discomfort he felt through no fault of the host's. Nerevar was not to blame for their misery, but he was quite willing to make merry at their expense. The Hortator confided in them the secrets of guar breeding and told them which breed suited more for war, which for plowing the land, and which for racing. “Ah, what a magnificent guar!” He would exclaim from time to time. One outlander was stout, with a fat red neck, and his ruddy face was growing redder with each passing moment, from anger or heat or both in equal measure. But when it would seem that the burly outlander couldn't endure another moment of humiliation, Nerevar rose from his bench and ordered both riders to approach him. He praised them and rewarded them, and with charm and outstanding tact averted the impending disaster by inviting his guests to the palace to dine with him.

On the long table, in the enormous dining hall illumined with three dozen magelight, awaited them steaming pies from kagouti meat, dishes from fried alit, kwama eggs, saltrice porridge with mudcrab meat, baked fish and delicacies from exotic fruit, and Nerevar ordered a young boy to beat a guarskin drum, though the crude music was rather inappropriate for the splendid occasion. By the doors to the dining hall thronged servants and retainers in readiness to fulfill every wish of the distinguished guests. Then came Almalexia with her handmaidens, and her beauty and well-disposed demeanor uplifted the spirits of everyone present during dinner. The 'yellow coats' at first bunched up to the right of the king's seat, awaiting another degrading jest, but when the servants brought in Dagoth brandy, they flung away all cautiousness and joined the Chimer nobility in the competition of wit. Both the representatives of Emperor Goreius II and Chimer nobles harbored no love for their neighbors – the Nords of Skyrim – and owing to their shared contempt for them, they quickly found a common language. 

After the feast, most outlanders could not stand on their feet, having drunk so much brandy that they couldn't distinguish between the taste of mazte and the noble vintage drink, and Nerevar thought it wise to meet with them in the morning. Yet when he met with them in the morning, just as he suspected, they could but make hollow promises on behalf of their Emperor. Nerevar treated the surly manner of the stout outlander and the studied deference of the rest with equal indifference which verged upon boredom; and perhaps they sensed that he was in a foul mood because neither of them seemed to be overjoyed with their duties. Their parley was unexpectedly interrupted by Sotha Sil when he unceremoniously intruded upon them, looking rather comically. He walked into Nerevar's bedroom unannounced, dressed in a long black robe which hung loosely on his slim figure, his long metal beard awry on his chin and his oculi askance on his nose. He carried in his hands a heap of books he presumably borrowed from the Psyjics and he was so awkward in his excitement that he evoked pity.

“I found it, Nerevar! I found it!” He exclaimed, paying no heed to what was happening around him. “Where is Almalexia? I must tell her, too!”

There was nothing stately in his manners, usually so reserved, or in his bearing, usually so dignified; he resembled a child who found a precious toy and in the whole world nothing existed for him and nothing was worth his attention more than his toy. Nerevar excused himself and declared that the negotiations would resume after breakfast. When his guests made themselves scarce and he was alone with his teacher, the Hortator lowered himself into a chair and looked at Sotha Sil with exasperation.

“What is it, Sil? Can it wait until I conclude our talks?”

Sotha Sil set his occuli straight upon his thin nose and spread out a map of Tamriel on the table. Then he opened one of his books in which was also depicted the same map and showed it to Nerevar.

“Don't you see the difference? On the traditional map, Tamriel is washed by Padomay ocean – here is Resdayn, Black Marsh and nothing but ocean beyond that. But look at the same map in this book! There is an unknown landmass to the east of Tamriel, and I think it's the illusive Akavir – the land so foreign to us that it may as well be Oblivion.”

“Akavir? Most cartographers think it's a myth.”

“Yes, and I thought so, too, until I found this book in the library of the Psyjic Order. Various accounts of merchants and pirates confirm the existence of a landmass. Some say it's an island or a cluster of islands, like Summerset Isles, but I'm convinced it's an entire continent. One of the pirates whose ship was washed ashore during a storm, traveled inland for many days and he never saw another ocean again until he turned back, and here... here he describes tall beautiful people, covered in golden scales. Only imagine it... magnificent! Marvelous!”

“And why couldn't you wait to tell me about this discovery of yours?”

Sotha Sil seemed taken aback and bemused at the same time. “You're my good friend, Nerevar,” he said, thumbing through one of the many books he brought with him, sagging under their weight.

“Ah, it's not that... I appreciate the thought! But you could have waited...” The Hortator leaned back in the chair, sighing deeply. “What am I to do with you?.. Why does this Akavir hold sway over your brilliant mind?”

“Think of the many possibilities – trade, conquest, settlements in the new lands. We'll accept that we are a part of something vast and beautiful, something that exists independently of us... Ah, but the possibilities are endless.”

“Well, that's quite an idyllic picture... In all likelihood, if we ever land there, we will catch a terrible disease. And these serpent-folk in your book don't look friendly to me.”

“You of little faith, why are you so afraid?” Sotha Sil shook a bony finger at him.

“What are the two of you going on about?” Asked Almalexia and both of them turned to look at her. She must have come in so quietly that neither of them, distracted by a learned conversation, noticed her.

Sotha Sil beamed with joy and with a muffled exclamation “Ayem!” embraced her briefly.

“Ayem, I discovered a continent,” he said, laughing. “Can you believe it? A whole continent!”

“That merits an explanation... later. Nerevar, I came to tell you that Ashlander scouts arrived and my guard stands ready to depart. May I suggest that we leave tomorrow?”

“And what of the delegation from the Alessian Empire?”

“What of them? We'll show these outlanders the door in the morning.” Almalexia's eyes flashed rapturously. “We must take possession of Azura's artifact immediately!”

Sotha Sil shifted his gaze from the queen to the king, with the air of a man unaccustomed to being in the dark about the subject of the discourse. “Well, you obviously know something I don't.”

“Yesterday we summoned Azura and before you scold me for trusting her, listen to me... Sil, are you listening? We can't be squeamish about any sound advice, be it from an adversary or a friend, and the advice of an adversary, provided we can ascertain that it is not a crafty pitfall, is all the more valuable.”

“Do as you please, but don't expect me to run errands for an arbitrary god. My devotion does not extend beyond occasional charity and then I place a pearl or a ruby on her altar, but to think that I must deflect attention from my studies for the sake of a paltry artifact...”

“Sotha Sil, please-”

“No, Nerevar, you and Ayem are on your own.” Sotha Sil collected his books and maps, and with an expression of deep-rooted aversion, ran out of the bedroom.

“That's true Sotha Sil for you,” muttered Almalexia, taking a seat on the bed and resting her hands on her knees, self-possessed like a proper lady of the court, but Nerevar's impression was that she barely took a hold of herself. “When you need him, he'll abandon you and he will find a hundred reasons to convince himself of his own rightness.”

“His lack of reverence is most unfortunate. What has gotten into him? Do you think he is offended by our less than enthusiastic attitude towards his discovery? I confess to you: I have too much on my mind to worry about some mythical continent.”

“I'll talk to him later, and perhaps I'll persuade him – if not to come with us, then to respect our determination to lead this expedition... Did you gather any clues as to the whereabouts of this Mzuanch?”

...After they mulled over different alternatives to storm Mzuanch or lay siege to the ruined city if necessary, they parted ways and Nerevar resumed talks with the disgruntled dignitaries, but as ill luck would have it, no sooner had they settled comfortably around the table than Alandro Sul came to deliver an urgent message. The Hortator sent everyone away and unrolled a small piece of paper which was folded twice. It read:

“ _LH MP DHRU ZHRKSMOI MKGVFMLP, XTVVDT DIWL IJ VXAU”_

The handwriting wasn't Voryn's and the short note bore no signature, but the sender had to be one of his most trusted nobles with whom he corresponded during the war in code. Dumac knew of it, too; his Tonal Architects invented it. But Dumac would never send a message with a Chimer. Nerevar tried a key word 'scamp' and then 'star', and to his satisfaction the latter revealed the true content of the mysterious message.

“ _TO MY LORD HORTATOR URGENTLY, FAVELA DRES IS DEAD”_

***

Voryn Dagoth stood in front of his father's portrait, as if he was still a living person, and admired his full face which would be perfectly comely if not for the unattractive mouth and cold deep-set eyes which imparted to his face something of a feral expression. He was none too clever to be a good leader and too cruel to be a good father, and he had none of Voryn's respect save for moments of debilitating self-doubt when he envied his father's brash senseless brutality. His father would have put the Ashlanders to fire and sword, issuing a challenge to the Hortator himself, he wouldn't hesitate to defend the honor of his House, but Voryn couldn't abase himself by becoming what he was – a beast, like a wild kagouti. Was the honor of his House in serving the king faithfully or in vindicating its independence? An unthinking beast would believe the notion of honor as immutable as the existence of Azura herself, a constant unaffected by the passing of time, but the basis of their existence was in their belief that the Daedra changed them, molded them like clay. A universe without change is barren, like a mother who cannot give birth. He will defend the honor of his House – not the House of old which his father lamented, but the new House, transformed by an oath he swore to his Hortator, so that it would bear magnificent fruit.

Voryn smiled softly at the Orc who stood beside him. “Did you say something, Gurak?”

“No, serjo. I was about to say that your brothers returned to Kogoruhn, but I didn't wish to disturb you. You seemed, forgive my bold presumption, engrossed in deep thought... They are waiting for you at the temple, as you requested.”

“So it is time to announce my decision... Sometimes I wish I could, Gurak, but I can't. I... can't disgrace myself so.”

“Would you come again, m'lord?”

“I can't betray our Hortator... Now go, tell them I'll be with them soon.”

The Orc bowed and withdrew in a hurry, but Voryn couldn't take his eyes off his father's immovable face, depicted with perfection of which he was undeserving. Why was he doubtful now? Was it admiration he felt with a palpitating heart, surrendering with joy to the old sentiments he thought he had quelled long ago? What produced such an impression upon his mind: the portrait of an old man he wanted to admire or the memory of a man who deserved his admiration for his iron determination and unapologetic lively spirit, whom he admired like a rising star since the day they first met, having convinced himself that his admiration was a folly?

'Don't hesitate,' Nerevar told him once. 'At times you must plunge headlong into the unknown and discover for yourself what awaits on the other side. But you can't, can you? Too many rules to obverse, too many nuances to consider – and suddenly you are afraid, balancing on the edge of a precipice. You cannot teach yourself not to fear the precipice – it's not within any mortal's power. But you can learn not to think, not to hesitate when you find yourself amid the unfavorable surroundings, and fear won't take root in your soul. It will pass like a cloud over the sun, and you will be free.'

Voryn climbed the stairs and opened a heavy wooden door into the courtyards. The evening was warm and windless, and banners of House Dagoth hung still. The distance which his eye could embrace was a waste, untarnished by ash-winds, dust and fog, and the trees, the thorny bushes, the stone protuberances were in full view. Such extraordinary clarity served as a prelude for a severe ash storm, as if nature was resting before opening wide the heavens and letting the winds loose.

The air in the temple was dry and warm, the hallways narrow and dark, which together with the ubiquitous smell of burning incense made an oppressive impression on the susceptible mind. Voryn's brothers, six altogether, conversed quietly among each other, not daring to raise their voices and disturb the eerie quietude of the temple, but no sooner had they seen him enter than they fell silent. Voryn never considered himself particularly imposing, but the circumstances of their meeting and the not so domestic surroundings demanded from them their utmost attention, and in compelling their attention to him he succeed. Recovering his spirits, Voryn spoke eloquently and convincingly, addressing his brothers one after another – the youngest of them, Araynys, the twins Uthol and Endus, Odros, Vemyn and Tureynul who had extraordinary talent for healing arts, and the silence was such that when Voryn paused to take a breath and recollect his dissipating thoughts, he could hear the benches creaking.

“Dear brothers,” he said, “I wish we gathered together on a happier occasion and I am sure such an occasion will soon arise, but today I have to do my duty as Grandmaster and decide the fate of my misguided brother. No duty is more painful than this. My heart aches for him, but I must observe the law and I find myself in a predicament. What must I sacrifice, my honor or my love? I only pray to Azura that my choice is right... How cruel are the gods and fates!.. But, my brothers, I cannot shirk this grim responsibility and with authority bestowed upon me, I say this: we are to do nothing. We will wait for the Hortator's sentence and we will comply with his decision fully, and we will pray that his wisdom is greater than mine.

“You are asking yourselves – and I know it because I've asked so myself – where is the honor in surrender? We'll allow some Hortator, an outsider, a pretender, to be in command of our destiny. Once I, too, thought it inconceivable. But when I met with him face to face, I didn't see an outsider or a hypocrite – no, I saw a mer who loved our land, who was grieved to learn how we suffered under the yoke of the invaders from Skyrim, who dreamed to bring prosperity to his people... We relied on him to win our freedom. We expected him to deliver on those promises. We conferred on him the supreme authority and, following his example, we, too, will fulfill our promises.

"Wisdom for a mer's self is a depraved thing—it is the wisdom of rats. They who have all their time sacrificed to themselves, become in the end themselves sacrifices to the inconstancy of fortune. We will not become them, brothers. We will not seek to profit only ourselves. We do not surrender, we make sacrifices, willingly and unreservedly, for the greater things."

When Voryn concluded his speech, the answer was perfect silence.

***

The mighty stern of a large wooden boat, churning the turbid river, cut into the soft mud which lay thick upon the rocky shore and came to a standstill. A few Chimer in netch leather armor and helmets, with their chitin spears at the ready, jumped into shallow water and clambered uphill, halting their advance only when their leader – a tall mer distinguished from the rest by his ornate earrings and a long worn scarf wrapped around his shoulders – spotted a mudcrab and with adroitness which testified to his skill, skewered it upon his spear. The leader killed a dozen or so mudcrabs, separated the soft meat from the hard shells and piled the shells not too far from where the rest of his scouts had set up camp and struck fire. The evening mist had settled upon the hills, and unrolled itself upon the beach and the river, but the fire which burnt merrily, devouring one bundle of dry saltrice after another, could be seen at a long distance from the camp. Then more boats pulled in to the rocky strand and a stream of dark bodies poured ashore, with here and there an eddy. A brief but heated argument arose: as the small Chimer host settled by the numerous fires, the Argonian servants led out a guar by the harness and the animal snorted and resisted while the grooms tried to subdue it with a rope, but succeeded only at frightening it into frenzy. The leader of the Ashlander scouts came to their aid; he talked to the guar and waved his hand, as if casting a spell, but though he didn't resort to magic to quieten the guar, when Almalexia and Nerevar came ashore, the order was restored in the camp. 

Nerevar, preoccupied with uneasy thoughts, made way to the large tent so as to retire for the night, but not before he contemplated the scenery around him and committed it to memory. The rocky strand stretched for no more than a hundred paces before it sloped steeply down towards the swamp overgrown with saltrice and marshmerrow, but opposite of the swamp, the hilly terrain evened out and somewhere in thick chilly mist, Ashlander scouts found a semblance of a road meandering among the short-stemmed wild trees, arrayed in autumn colors. A natural but quaint formation of rocks of all shapes and sizes dominated the landscape, not unlike a castle erected by wind and water and earth tremors - those amazing architects of nature - which brought about the collapse of weaker stones and from that foundation emerged enormous immovable boulders shaped like windowless towers. In the morning, they were to march north and in a few hours they should see the spires of Mzuanch which faithfully guarded the half-sunken carcass of the abandoned city. In the distance, a bull netch and a betty netch called to one another, bellowing plaintively, and their love-song evoked memories in Nerevar of the fields and the sunburned Chimer women with flowing hair singing a harvest song while they stooped over the baskets with warm ripe fruit.

Almalexia sat by the fire, drinking mead with the Nords and laughing with self-forgetful inspiration, as though she was one of them. Nerevar looked away from her and slipped into the tent where a young boy polished a Daedric suit of armor. The Hortator sent him away, mistrustful of him for no reason other than he had no confidence in his shield-bearers except his loyal Alandro Sul whom he chose to leave behind, having burdened him with an onerous duty to keep the gates of Mournhold shut until their return. Whether Favela Dres died of natural causes or one of her children or grandchildren, or siblings decided to take the matter into their own hands, House Dres was leaderless and many nobles would see it as opportunity to expand their influence. Alandro Sul would die before he would let anyone through the gates, and that outcome of his bold scheme Nerevar feared most.

Without the shield-bearer, a menial task such as cleaning his armor fell on him, and he was overjoyed at the distraction. Daedric metal imbued with the essence of lesser Daedra didn't rust easily, but from time to time Alandro Sul would clean it with a mixture of sand and muck, and coat it in oil from kagouti fat. Nerevar seated himself on a rough-hewn stool and in the light of a single redware lamp covered in insects began tidying his armor thoroughly and tenderly.

“When did you learn how to clean your armor?” Asked Almalexia. She came in with a tankard of mead, smiling as she rarely smiled, from ear to ear, showing her strong white teeth. If it wasn't for that smile, Nerevar would never guess that she was tipsy.

“Adventuring here and there. We mercenaries either took care of ourselves or death took care of us. You live upon your wits and you die by the sword.”

“It's poetic in some way... Nerevar, why didn't you join me outside?”

The Hortator hoisted the cuirass upon the armor stand. “Excellent, excellent!” He remarked, clicking his tongue. “I needed to think and I think better when I'm alone, praying or performing an irksome task... It occurred to me all of a sudden how little we know of the world we consider our home. I can't seem to shake off an impression that the more Azura speaks to us, the less sense I can make of this world... So much for that.”

“And yet you trust Azura implicitly. You cannot even trust your shield-bearer to tend to you, fearing... I don't know what it is that you fear. But you don't fear her in the slightest.”

“I fear her all right.”

“Still, you repose absolute trust in her words. You're willing to venture your life and the lives of your people to satisfy her whims.”

“She never lied to me, Almalexia – I have no rational reason to mistrust her. I lied to myself, seeing in her a quick painless path to salvation for all of us, myself included. I purposefully misunderstood her words, twisting them to my liking, and for my mistakes I've been punished cruelly... But she always told me the truth...”

“How can you be sure of it? Aren't you lying to yourself now?”

“How can you be certain that the sun will rise tomorrow and not, say, fall through the fabric of the sky?”

“Nerevar, I'm quite serious.”

“So am I... It's faith, Almalexia. You get up from bed every morning and you see sunrise through the window; day after day, year after year, the sun never fails to appear in the sky. Until we are given reasons to suspect that it can vanish, even if we allow our imagination to flourish and feed upon absurd theories, we will have our unshakable faith to set us straight.”

“Faith... is a frightening concept,” said Almalexia quietly.

“Yes, frightening and sweet...”

An Ashlander brought in steaming saltrice porridge, bread and mudcrab meat, and as she drew a plate towards her, filling it to the brim with warm wholesome food, Almalexia forgot about their conversation. After him came their leader and explained that it was a gift from him and his people to the Great Ashkhan. The Hortator invited him to dine with them and as they partook the simple but delicious meal, he and the queen made inquiries into what the scouts found at Mzuanch.

“It's a godforsaken ruin, if I ever saw one,” replied the Ashlander. Most of the time he addressed the Hortator, paying to Almalexia none of the obeisance with which the Indoril guard addressed her; to him she was known as merely the wife of the Great Ashkhan and the queen of the House nobles who lived in the cities and robbed them of their pastures and harvests. “But someone lives there – of that I have no doubt. We saw two sentries by the entrance – an Orc and a Breton – and two more guards behind a tall mossy wall. Man-made defenses are sparse, but our biggest obstacle will be nature. The sunken bridge in front of the entrance and the entrance door are knee-deep in water; the door is old and rusty and I never saw anyone enter or leave through it. As for the broken bridge... at first, it rises steeply, showing itself from under water, but comes abruptly to an end. The rest of it is at the bottom of the river. I surmised that there must be another entrance into the stronghold of these cultists, a breach in the wall or-”

“Then it is decided,” Almalexia eagerly interjected. “We ambush the guards, kill all but one and inquire our captive about the other entrance into the ruin.”

“What if he doesn't talk? We cannot waste a day to pry the secret out of him by force.”

“We can capture all of them and one of them will surely betray the other three to save his skin.”

“No, it's too dangerous,” Nerevar, hitherto content with observing the argument, lifted up his voice. “They'll raise a ruckus if we let them live.”

“You don't suggest we sit and wait-”

“I've yet to suggest anything, but if we can create a distraction... But why does it have to be a distraction? No, we sink Mzuanch or at least give them reason to suspect that the ruins are sinking and as they scamper about every which way, we'll capture them one by one."

“It's clever,” admitted Almalexia, “but I'm doubtful of our success. What if no one makes it out alive? Azura's star will be buried on the bottom of the river, and all the secrets with it, but more importantly, I don't dare to imagine what punishment the goddess will choose to inflict upon us if we lose her treasure.”

Nerevar nodded his head and took a mouthful of the porridge, winced, and spat it out, twisting his mouth. The Ashlander hurried to take the dish away, but as soon as he was out of earshot, the Hortator shrugged his shoulders as if nothing were wrong and lamented the waste of a good porridge. Far be it from him to hope that his little act would escape Almalexia's attention, but she didn't know what to make of it.

“Whatever her punishment, it will pale before the wrath of Molag Bal,” he concluded. “I imagine they keep the star well-hidden, but not too far from the entrance. Think about it, Almalexia! They prefer old ruins with dark narrow hallways, a plethora of hidden passages and chambers – a perfect pitfall. They lure us into these ruins where we can't use powerful magic out of fear that the ceiling might cave in and they smother our advance, conjuring up legions of daedra... Common tricks are of no use; the cultists never gather in one place in large numbers, the rest are mercenaries and their daedra and-”

“And their prisoners, am I right?”

“Perhaps you're right, but those aren't men or mer – they are... they are something else,” objected Nerevar heatedly. “Abominations, walking corpses... vessels without souls or with souls deformed by ghastly experiments...”

“And how do you know that not even one prisoner survived? A necromancer – Sil described it as some kind of necromancy – requires a living being, a beating heart, a soul other than his own to torment and mold into a form he desires.”

“In Bal Fell no one survived the brutal rituals.”

Almalexia rose from the table, as if to tell him that when she towered above him, her arguments had a particularly great weight to them.

“In other words, you can't be certain and you never intended to ascertain the truth.”

“Now you know why I consider it a wasteful affair to take Mzuanch by force.”

“You're intolerable, Nerevar!”

“Aren't I always?” The Hortator took off his boots and stretched on a bed of fur, regarding his wife through half-closed eyes with great curiosity. “Almalexia, if you want to storm Mzuanch with your guard, I won't interfere, but I advise you against it.”

“You know it too well that with so small a force I cannot storm Mzuanch. I don't have any other choice but to follow you... to the end. And perhaps I spoke too hastily and you're not wrong. I'll judge for myself...”

“As you wish... And now I would like to rest.” Nerevar tossed and turned for a bit, but before he knew it, he was soundly asleep.

...The Chimer host stepped off in good spirits an hour after dawn. The Ashlander scouts in their light armor preceded the Indoril guard which marched stately along the road, and their leader would now and again sneak out of the bushes, exchange a few quiet words with Nerevar and vanish again into the dense shrubbery. Nerevar rode a guar abreast of Almalexia, but they barely spoke to each other, pretending to be all but unaware of each other. Almalexia gave an inspiring and uplifting speech before they set out for Mzuanch, walking along the even lines of Indoril warriors with a spring in her step, arrayed in heavy armor resplendent from afar in colors and gold. Nerevar ordered the Ashlanders to scout the land and warn him of any approaching caravans or travelers, but the delightful landscape lay before them desolated and undisturbed. The cold night gave way to a chilly brilliant morning, and the mushroom trees, the puddles of water, the grassy hills, and even the bleak stones were made luminous by the ever-present sunlight. At the beginning, the road wound steadily uphill and a few secluded huts caught Nerevar's eye, standing lone and dark against the sky. In one of these huts they rested for a bit and refreshed themselves. Then the road led them through a valley bestrewn with pools of boiling mud and they lost one of the Indoril retainers to a spurt of white-hot steam which burst through a tiny fissure in the ground, pouring over him from head to toe. He uttered a bloodcurdling scream, clutching at his helmet, and thrashed about, but all too soon his throes ceased and screams subsided into loud moans. The rapid escape of steam produced a cacophony of whistling and hissing sounds, and the swirling mist concealed the unfortunate man from view. The Hortator didn't allow anyone to look for the body. 'A bad way to die,' said Almalexia, and he whispered a short prayer for his soul. Only the Ashlanders remained indifferent to the fortuitous death of the retainer; they learned how to navigate the inhospitable wastelands of Vvardenfell and elude its many pitfalls since birth.

The sun being in zenith, they continued their way and not long after they left the dead valley, they saw the lopsided spires of Mzuanch rising towards the noonday sky. The Dwemer settlements were famous for their impregnability to adverse weather, they withstood the most vicious siege and onslaught of time, but something strange occurred in Mzuanch and a stone which hitherto resisted the thu'um and Chimer magic, cracked. According to the Dwemer historians, as the towers crumbled and water inundated the hallways through the breach in the ceiling, all life left the Animunculi, too, and they could be seen till this day, rusting away idly like any other pile of scrap metal. Kagrenac dedicated years to studying the tragedy at Mzuanch, but Nerevar never got to know whether he was successful in finding the reasons for such a disastrous failure of Dwemer engineering or he was still searching his mind for answers with stubbornness characteristic of all Dwemer who denied the necessity of hope.

Nerevar's eyes swept the decaying city from the sunken bridge and a mossy wall of which the Ashlander told him to the towers topped with rusty steeples and he ordered the scouts to kill the sentries. Four arrows left their quivers and arched skywards; four bodies fell, bloodying the water, and no one was the wiser. The leader of Ashlanders dragged them into the clearing, slit their throats and stripped them naked, displaying them in such a humiliating manner to taunt their enemies into frenzy.

“And how will you sink Mzuanch, may I ask?” Almalexia said scornfully, adopting a comfortable posture, with her arms across her chest. They found shelter in a cove which afforded a good view of Mzuanch and let their guars nibble at the bittergreen vine nearby.

Nerevar, in all conscience, didn't know what to tell her, and he glanced round, mopping the sweat from his brow, in hope that the answer would come to him.

“So you haven't the slightest idea... Fortunately, I have some thoughts I'm willing to share with you,” she teased him. “The tower to our left sustained the most damage and with little effort, we can topple it. I cannot imagine the destruction such a fall can cause to the old buildings.”

“I thought only yesterday you were vehemently opposed to my plan.”

Instead of bickering with him, Almalexia called for one of the sorcerers and sought council from him. The Hortator told his scouts to take position around the ruin at some distance from each other so that none of what was happening would escape their attention, and wait for his signal. Meanwhile Almalexia and her sorcerer conjured up a fireball, but the feeble fires spread over the dome of the spire and died out, disturbing a few of the ancient stones and raising a cloud of dust. The cultists, however, noticed their efforts and on the sunken bridge two storm atronachs manifested, each like a dark cloud pierced by a myriad of lightnings with a semblance of a savage face. “Archers!” resounded across the soon-to-be battlefield, and Ashlander scouts hailed down arrows upon the atronachs in steady volleys. But however quickly they took out arrows from their quivers and released them and however precise was their aim, a steel weapon could inflict on the storm giants no graver injury than a bug bite. They heard a peal of distant thunder and the dark clouds moved towards them, like smoke moves or mist, drifting barely above ground. Seeing that the spawns of Oblivion advanced forwards, the Ashlanders switched to enchanted arrows and succeeded in killing one of them, but a flame atronach took its place and on its death, a daedroth. Lightning struck from the clear sky, Nerevar heard a muffled scream and smelled rain in the air with a tinge of charred skin. A storm giant and a daedroth drew near and dispersed in a rapid advance, having less than fifty paces to surmount under the deadly hail of arrows when Almalexia's guard lent the Ashlanders a helping hand, and Nerevar drew his sword in anticipation of onslaught. He didn't get the chance to cross swords with the daedra, for there and then the queen and the sorcerer unleashed their devastating magic from which the ground shook underneath their feet. Nerevar saw the tower lean forward and it was suspended like that for a few moments, during which a visible serpentine crack appeared in the old stones, and the entire structure sank to the side, hastening the collapse of another spire. A large stone fell across the bridge, and the round leafs of the iron door bent under the crushing weight it wasn't designed to withstand, durable as it were. It was an astonishing and tragic sight to behold. The buildings which stood proudly for many years crumbled, and into the many cracks and crevices water gushed forth, burying the ruins in its gentle embrace.

As Nerevar predicted, the cultists desisted forthwith from any and all attempts to attack them and took flight. They weren't discreet in their escape and even to the naked eye were visible figures in black as they ran to and fro, trying to elude the vigilant Ashlanders and diligent retainers. Almalexia's trusted guard caught them and brought them, bound and gagged, to the Hortator. He rummaged through their belongings until he found in a small leather bag tied around the neck of one of the cultists a black object in the shape of a star and he wrapped it in a piece of cloth with care, as if it were fragile or broken.

They didn't find the dead bodies until Almalexia discovered a gap in the wall which was rapidly filling with water and through it they saw many corpses in rags or utterly naked before they sank never to be seen again, to the place of their final rest.

***

_When Dagoth Ur tries to create a servant who will obey him blindly, he feels as though fires of the Dwemer furnace lash out in anger. The Red Mountain trembles and erupts, expelling clouds of ash and lava from its bowels. It wasn't a deliberate attempt on his part to wake the sleeping giant, but the magic of the Heart is so powerful that he can't contain it and its echo is heard even in the place where his bodiless form rests._

_From his will is born a creature – an ash slave – but something is amiss with it. It roams mindlessly, flesh of his flesh, and hungers, and calls him constantly –_ _WHERE ARE YOU, LORD? I cannot hear you.... SPEAK to me! PLEASE! - but its ears are deaf to his commanding voice and its soul is mute to the melodies of the Heart. It is pitiful and imperfect, and it cannot serve his needs._

_After observing it for some time, Dagoth Ur loses interest in it._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Cipher_ \- To encode the letter in this chapter I used [Vigenere Cipher](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vigenere_cipher). It's the same cipher used to encrypt a message to Caius Cosades at the beginning of the game and I had a lot of fun with it
> 
>  _You of little faith, why are you so afraid_ \- Matthew 8:26
> 
>  _Oculi_ \- from "oculus" meaning eye in Latin. I used this word for glasses which we never really saw in Morrowind, but it was only suiting for me to invent them. Its Latin origin is also somewhat justified canonically. The word "Horator" for example is clearly Latin (and I frequently refer to its meaning)


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter and onward I will use the word _chil'a_ which I borrowed from the official calendar to denote a Chimer New Year

**Chapter 8: Only by fate  
**

Voryn time and again regretted that his private chambers didn't have windows, even if all he could lay eyes upon was mesmerizing in its monotony land of ash and stone, even if the light permeated through a narrow chink in the impregnable walls in meager streaks like timid caresses of the mythical father-god. On some days, he abhorred the stuffy air and the ever-present smell of thick-layered book dust, and the blinking of magelights which some apprentice or the other forgot to clean and relight. In his youth, he rarely returned to his room, preferring, to his father's chagrin, to sleep on the Temple roof. Under the starlit sky, he would dream of this, that and the other, while his brothers acted their age, getting themselves into trouble for stealing father's potions, for hunting alit in an ash storm, for reckless brawls in skooma dens and professing infatuation – was it Vemyn? - to a captain of the Nordic garrison stationed at Kogoruhn. He was satisfied to spend his days stealing sweets from the kitchens and sneaking onto the rooftop at night, unenterprising and unimpressive in every way except for his aptitude for magical arts, so much so that mother said once that no Dagoth noble before him was born with magic running so thick in his veins. His family had high expectations for him, but his father despised all schools of magecraft in equal measure and decried his talents, frequently remarking that he would rather see him grow up a rogue than a sorcerer.

For three months he didn't hear a word from the Hortator; the silence was tiring, the wait was maddening, and Voryn lost hope to receive Nerevar's verdict, however favorable or adverse, before the celebration of chil'a. Gurak stood behind his table like a shadow, awaiting his orders, and there were a few territorial disputes demanding his attention, but Voryn dipped his quill into the inkwell with but one concern on his mind: what to say in his next letter to the Hortator that he hadn't already said. And so he wrote:

> _My lord Hortator,_
> 
> _It dismays me to hear nothing from you for months. Did I inadvertently, with some careless deed or offensive word, incur your displeasure? I wrote to you about my brother Gilvoth, about the unfortunate circumstances in which we found ourselves, but I have yet to receive confirmation from you that you know about any of it and intend to declare your verdict soon. I tire to death of waiting. I want to observe the law and tradition, and I want to do right by you, but without your assistance how can I hope for a peaceful resolution?_
> 
> _My brothers grow impatient, too. They look at me for answers and the longer I dilly-dally, the less faith I inspire in them. What changed since our last conversation? Please, write back soon._
> 
> _Always your most loyal servant,  
>  _ _Voryn Dagoth._

When Voryn read the last lines aloud, they sounded awfully a lot like begging or some other kind of self-disparagement unbecoming to a proud ruler of an ancient House and he scratched them out with such force that the sharp tip of the quill tore the thin paper and the ink spilled on the table.

“Gurak, clean it up,” he whispered beside himself with ire.

The Orc wiped the table and brought him a stack of fresh yellowy paper. Voryn rewrote the letter from a piece of paper mangled up in his futile struggle with his passions onto a new crispy sheet, omitting the last few lines which after he had given them thought, read like this:

> _What changed since our last conversation? I am awaiting a letter from you in good faith._
> 
> _Voryn Dagoth._

Voryn signed the letter in vigorous strokes, hurrying to put an end to his unexpected torment, and entrusted it to his servant who folded it twice and impressed his seal on hot dreugh wax. Heaving a sigh of relief, the head of House Dagoth rose from his seat and explained to Gurak that he wanted the letter delivered on the following day and into the Hortator's own hands.

“May I say something, sera?” Asked Gurak afterwards.

“If you want to ask me about the letter, I'm not certain what's there to talk about.”

“No, the letter doesn't concern me... You haven't been quite yourself lately, sera, and it is my duty as a faithful servant to remind you that your odd behavior doesn't escape the attention of other nobles who thrive on gossip.”

“I need you in a capacity of a servant, not a confidant,” Voryn cut short his poetic effusions. “Keep your insight into my private life to yourself or I'll have you whipped.”

“I beg your forgiveness, sera, for my careless words. I didn't want to anger you.”

Voryn motioned aside and when he heard the door close, he stooped over the table upon which were scattered some pages from volumes on sublimation of void salts and magic geometry, so as not to look at the windowless walls and wring his hands in quiet despair. The uncertainty weighed heavily on him, and his suspicion that Nerevar's cruel silence was his punishment for refusing him grew only stronger, gnawing at him with enviable constancy.

'Three accursed months,' he thought to himself. 'Mighty Azura, what have I done to deserve such punishment? Azura-star, merciful mother, the light-that-never-fades...' He enumerated all titles by which the goddess was known to the Chimer and smiled mockingly, acknowledging to himself the futility of his religious enthusiasm. Then his thoughts took an unexpected turn, as it often happens with thoughts which flash through our mind or linger, disturbing our memory, obtrusive, unwelcome and unbridled. 'We of House Dagoth were always outcasts, shunned not because we didn't believe in our Lady, but because we didn't obey the implicit laws of the court. We pursued our goals independently from other Houses, taking little interest in their squabbles, political ambitions, feuds and our indifference was off-putting to them. They rightly feared us... We are a pillar upon which the throne of Resdayn rests. We are a mighty hand which smites the Hortator's enemies.' And Voryn concluded the conversation with himself on a more peaceful note. 'It is easy to dispense love on everyone in utterly favorable circumstances, but how do I on a whim forget about centuries of bloody strife and love them, as he wants me to love them – as though they were my brothers?'

Having spent an entire morning in reflection, Voryn made preparations to visit one of the ebony mines in Odros's domain, but another matter was brought to his attention and he decided, albeit not of his own volition, to postpone the journey. Behind the temple, one of his forefathers built an ossuary under a fancy roof where from that day onward all members of Dagoth family were buried – an eerie despondent place through no fault of the architect's. In his mind, the tall windows would add charm to the oppressing silence of the sacred place, but he couldn't imagine that one day there would be more coffins than niches to accommodate them and the old skulls would have to be immured in the walls. When the light shone on the rows of yellow bones, on the empty eye-sockets, the flutter of sunlight spots imparted to them a sinister semblance of life: they seemed to stir and breathe, disturbing the old dust, and rustle, like sand rustles trickling down through an hourglass. When Voryn found himself in the family crypt, the unblinking stare of a few dozens skulls made him shiver, even though he was aware that these mirages were the fruit of his imagination trying to make sense of death in the only way he knew how – to personify it, to array it in familiar words and casuistry.

The family crypt for many years served as the last resting place for Dagoth nobility, and Voryn's parents were both buried there. However, lately the crypt resembled not a resting place but a wild debauch for ancestral spirits who refused to quiet down, flying about the ossuary and wailing in their frightening hollow voices. One of those spirits was his mother's and she refused his summons to the Waiting Door, which bewildered Voryn who knew that the ancestors would not willingly come to the world of the living, describing it on many occasions as cold, bitter and chaotic. Ulvena Dagoth passed away peacefully in her bed, but for a few years before her death she suffered from witbane and in her final hours she couldn't remember the names of her sons or their faces. Her spirit remembered them and sometimes she appeared in Voryn's dreams, luminous, light as the breath of wind on his skin, her eyes a quivering reflection of stars in the bottomless nightly sea.

Ulvena's spirit returned that morning and Voryn could not think of any other opportune moment to persuade her to return to Oblivion than meet with her face to face there and then. He clothed himself in a warm black robe appropriate for winter season and wrapped himself in a long cloak. Leaning on a long ebony staff out of habit rather than acute need, Voryn made his way to the temple, and he often stopped to marvel at the winter landscape: at the immutable stillness of the shaggy snowdrifts, at the sullen sky and at the sleeping giant of the Red Mountain with a thin wisp of smoke above its crown. The sentries in bonemold armor, so as to warm themselves, lit fires in small braziers and, stomping their feet, sang in their discordant hoarse voices a merry song.

By the stone door to the ossuary, Araynys waited for him, and Voryn assured him that he would talk to their mother, but his platitudes didn't seem to mollify his brother's unhappiness. Voryn put a hand on his shoulder, smiled briefly and stepped through the stone door into a dusty room with an arching ceiling and dark walls in which his ancestors were entombed. Withered old mummies, all covered in grime, sat by the walls and in front of them were laid out weapons of ancient design, no less ancient helmets and garments above which hung a shimmering veil of old dust. In the corner, Voryn saw a wraith in a white funereal shroud with her bony little arms lifted to the ceiling in deep lament and otherworldly chill struck through him when she gazed at him with those inscrutable deep eyes which were more luminous than her ghostly form.

“Voryn, where are you? I can't see you,” lamented Ulvena's spirit peevishly.

Voryn came up to her quietly, struggling to keep his presence of mind, though his court tricks were of no use when he communed with the spirits of his ancestors.

“I'm here, mother,” he said emphatically. Ulvena's spirit heard him, her refulgent form rippled and drew closer, and her fingers touched his cheek, cold, sticky like cobwebs of the Webspinner. “What do you want with me?”

“I demand that you release Navam's spirit, my dear son. You disgraced him cruelly after his death in a way only someone of your magical talent could disgrace a father who wasn't all too fatherly in his attitudes towards his sons.”

“Well, say, I refuse, what then?”

“He had suffered enough, don't you feel it? He is humiliated and mad, more a diseased rat than a dutiful respectable clan spirit, and he suffers every single day of his endless watch. Why can't he watch over this shrine?” Added Ulvena's wraith with unfeigned sadness.

“He killed you and my brother, and he pursued shameful ambitions.”

“He may have killed your brother, but I died in my bed from a terrible illness. It seems to me that we Velothi, in our hubris of longevity, forget that we are not invincible. We wrench open the gates to Oblivion and summon spirits of our ancestors into the world of the living to pretend that the conquest of death is within our grasp.”

“Even without a weapon he struck you down just the same and Gilvoth, too...” objected Voryn, looking intently at the mummies. “There are events which dispose one to sickness or precipitate the inevitable outcome, and though the culprit cannot be solely blamed for all the incidents and outcomes, his fault is obvious... I should have openly rebelled against him and invaders from Skyrim, I should have thought of unifying all clans and Houses, and I regret deeply that I didn't have the courage to lead us to victory. Alas, I can but live out my days in admiration and envy of the Hortator's virtues.”

“Why did you bind your father's spirit to a shrine in the wilderness?”

“Mother, will you promise me not to haunt the crypt? The ruckus raised by you or by some other spirit frightened my chap'thil. It is expected of me, as Grandmaster of House Dagoth, to set their minds at rest about any 'troubles' in the ancestral tomb.”

“You'll overjoy me if you answer my question honestly. Then I can leave this world in peace once again.”

“I dedicated my life to protecting the honor of my House and we of House Dagoth always despised the cowardly tricks of other nobles. I would never stoop to patricide unless we met on a battlefield and fought honorably, and he refused to surrender to me... Although I never rebelled against him, I'd never forgive myself if I let him slip away from me in death; if I let him rest from his labors in peace of which he was undeserving. In punishing him harshly, I vindicated my right to be the master of my own fate.” The blood had risen to Voryn's cheeks, yet his voice was steady, quiet as before.

The wraith pressed her hands against her hollow breast and let out a sorrowful wail; her long ghostly-white hair scattered on her thin shoulders which seemed shaken with soundless sobs, and even though spirits couldn't weep – their eyes had long since dried out and their hearts long ago ceased beating – fear crept over Voryn and anguish oppressed his heart.

“I'll go, my darling. I take no joy in walking this world again and breathing its putrid air,” said Ulvena's spirit after a prolonged awkward silence.

With a graceful incline of his head, Voryn said his farewells and, picking up the skirts of his heavy robe, hurried to take leave of his mother.

Araynys, who Mephala only knew why waited outside the temple, looked at him with unspoken reproach, but he didn't dare ask his older brother about his conversation with the spirit of their mother. In his hands was a tiny bottle with lucid liquid which glittered faintly and he insisted Voryn took it.

“Will you see brother Odros soon? I want to give you a little gift for him... a concoction I've brewed just now, adhering closely to your lessons.”

“You practiced alchemy alone although I forbade you, explicitly, to touch my tools.” Voryn furrowed his brow. “I didn't collect expensive ingredients and retorts to have you spoil them with your ignorant fumbling. I'll take your potion to Odros, but only if you promise me not to trifle with my alchemical apparatus. Do you give me your word?.. Splendid! Now, can this potion be of any help to Odros?”

“My potion alleviates grave fatigue and grants temporarily resistance to serious diseases. You taught me to take two principal ingredients and mix them with two minor ingredients for desired effect. I chose ash yam and pearls-”

“Pearls!” Voryn cried out, making a helpless gesture. “You took my pearls, Malacath damn you!”

“Why, it was you, brother Voryn, who told me that pearls were quite cheap and common!”

“True as it may be, I often find pearls in the abandoned Daedric shrines instead of buying them from those misers who sell them for more than a hundred gold coins. Only think of it – a hundred gold coins!.. But what if those pearls are cursed? Don't you know that if you carelessly touch a cursed gem, a dremora lord will spawn and wreak havoc in my private rooms? I'm positively ruined!”

“A dremora lord...” Whispered Araynys, stupefied and awestruck.

Voryn's worst misgivings proved to be right: when Araynys touched one of the cursed pearls, Boethiah's hungering beast was summoned into the room, but it didn't attack him outright, displaying insidiousness and intelligence so characteristic of some Daedra. It waited until Araynys, overjoyed with his success, ran out of the bedchamber and set about destroying everything within its reach: firstly, stacks of books on the table fell victim to its claws, and the old chairs upholstered in plush; then it ravaged Voryn's expensive collection of alembics and retorts and fled into the Hall of Phisto where it drew attention of the guards. From the Hall of Phisto into the Hall of Maki, they chased the Hunger and cornered it in the waterway while Voryn stood on the threshold of his devastated bedroom, cursing everyone and the Daedra above all. It seemed to him that a blizzard had not so long ago raged in his room; the bed was littered with white fluff, the heavy chairs and a small table lay overturned, and around them the floor showed stark white against the dark furniture of expensive wood, strewn with ragged pages from torn books. Voryn looked at the devastation with mute horror and soon Araynys joined him, white as sheet, although to him all of it appeared altogether incomprehensible.

“Brother, what am I to do?” He asked meekly.

Voryn lifted a wordless prayer of gratitude to Azura for his habit to blow out all candles upon leaving his bedroom and, having entrusted Araynys with mending the retorts and alembics which could still be mended, he glanced over a crowd of servants who thrust themselves in at the doorway. When his wrathful gaze rested on any one of them, they looked away from him and shifted from one foot to another. The Grandmaster had the right and obligation to punish someone, guilty or guiltless, for the injury he suffered with twenty lashes and Araynys, owing to his birthright, couldn't be flogged or subjected to similar humiliating punishments.

It was an ordinary day in Kogoruhn.

***

A priestess in a worn gray robe knelt on the rime-strewn grass in front of the door to the Daedric shrine and outstretched her arms to the sea which was the same color as the sky – dark blue with white streaks of salt foam. At the first gleam of daylight, a guttural cry escaped her lips and behind her back shadows grew thicker, assuming a form all too familiar to Nerevar: that of a tall slender woman clothed in mist whose hair were clouds, whose eyes were stars and whose mouth was bliss. Azura's shadow – it was but a pale image of the goddess invested with none of her overwhelming power, in comparison with which Nerevar felt like a speck of dust on Sotha Sil's Wheel of Aurbis – touched the obsidian leafs of the door, and the Hortator and to his left a dozen of guards from House Indoril, and behind him disorderly ranks of townsfolk prostrated on the ground and cried out 'Ah-zurah', calling her by her true name in the hallow language of Veloth. A bright flash of light blinded the Hortator and when the gift of sight returned to him, he could no longer see Azura's shadow. The priestess was lying on the ground in a dead faint or in a pure religious ecstasy. The crowd of raggedy townsfolk poured uphill towards the yawning gap of the shrine entrance, but the Indoril guard promptly surrounded the priestess, Vivec and the king, holding off the most zealous of them. Alandro Sul held a Velothi tower shield in front of the Hortator, but Nerevar, recovering from his surprise, ordered the guards to sheath their weapons before they would heedlessly spill blood of the guiltless and forced his way through the crowd which tried to part before him but, clamoring, succeeded only in obstructing the road. With some difficulty he squeezed through the multitudes of faceless townspeople who now pressed against him, now backed away, frightful and dumbfounded, and waited until they restored the order among themselves. Vivec who rushed to bring the priestess to her senses couldn't help him.

So quiet, so ordinary – the coming in of the tide, the first rays of sunlight, the silhouettes of the abandoned houses which were barely visible on a dark winter morning – that it seemed to him that the placid town would endure into eternity. Nerevar endeavored to recede, in his imagination, a few months before the present time and to his further astonishment, he remembered little about the battle in Bal Fell, so stark in its monstrosity during its last dreadful moments, yet so distant now, when he trod on the same ground and nothing around him reminded him of it. He could no longer say with certainty where he saw a child in the pool of his own blood – in Bal Fell, during his desperate attack on Indoranyon, on the Bitter Beach or elsewhere entirely, or on every battlefield, but they were different children with different faces and some of them he slew with his own hand. And perhaps in his fair hair, braided for the occasion and decorated with glass beads, there appeared another gray streak, and that was that.

On Vivec's behest, the priestess of Azura lifted the curse from the shrine in Bal Fell and many townsfolk from nearby settlements as well as a few fishermen who went out into the sea and eluded the grim lot of their hapless kin, flocked to Bal Fell to reclaim the land of their ancestors and their homes. Nerevar sympathized with their sentiment insofar as he could, never having a home until adulthood, and he admired their great tenacity and desire to rebuild, to thrive on ruins if need be. He unexpectedly thought of Voryn, of his home in the inhospitable wilderness, and of the affinity he felt towards the head of House Dagoth who was unwelcome among other nobles, and why all such reflections were particularly pleasant lately, even in Voryn's absence. He fancied how he would win Voryn's full trust and affection, how he would sway the mind of that intractable mer, and every argument he imagined himself presenting to his friend was more cogent and appealing than the former, and every new detail of his visit to Mournhold all the more exhilarating. The news of his brother's obscene behavior was the only dark stain on that idyllic picture, but Nerevar put all such thoughts out of his mind and refused to read his last letters, reminding himself that he would have to scold his friend for distracting him with trifling family affairs.

The Hortator shivered with cold and breathed on his hands, glancing sternly at the crowd. The townsfolk huddled together, with confused expressions on their faces marked with age, disease, and hard labor, and he didn't feel that he inspired them with awe or profound reverence towards the royal authority. He could bet his priceless sword, Trueflame, that smugglers mingled with the crowd of honest law-abiding townsmen, hoping that the king would not notice them or consider them unworthy of his attention.

“Brave townsmen of Bal Fell,” Nerevar addressed them, spreading his arms wide, “I am immeasurably grateful to you for your indomitable spirit which prevailed in these dire times. Azura blessed us, giving us knowledge and tools to ensure that we celebrate victory today – a victory whose importance I cannot overstate! We demonstrate to the King of Rape time and time again that he frightens us, but he cannot dampen our rebellious spirit, and in this splendid victory you played a significant role.” His speech didn't earn him any acclamation, and men and mer gazed at him with disapproval, but such chilly response to his words had long since ceased fazing Nerevar who endured many hardships in his lifetime. His words were met with a hearty plaudit or clods of dirt, or indifferent silence, and he grew accustomed to distancing himself from the audience so that whether he basked in their benevolence or suffered a misfortune, he would, in spite of all vicissitudes of life, remain in a magnanimous frame of mind. The Hortator called for Alandro Sul, whispered something into his ear, flashed an unconcerned smile at the mistrustful crowd and pointed at the Indoril guard behind him. “I feel deep sympathy for your eagerness to return to your homes, but I can't allow you to do as you please just yet. My faithful guard will provide you with warm clothes, blankets, food and shelter while my shield-bearer and I will descend into the shrine so as to assure you in good faith that all Molag Bal's servants are dead and that the shrine poses no danger to the settlement.”

The elated exclamations were scarce, but Nerevar didn't linger about to observe their reaction and, drawing his fiery sword, dove into the darkness which no longer had a sinister aspect to it. Alandro Sul was armed to the teeth with an axe, two daggers and a light Velothi tower shield, and he somehow contrived to carry a torch. In the uneven circle of light from his torch, Nerevar saw the reddish-brown stains of dried blood which had all but faded away, broken rusty weapons and enormous brown rats, hurrying and scurrying about the shrine. They began descending the stairs which seemed to be carved from dark solid blocks of stone, and Nerevar now and again diverted his attention from pressing obligations to these rats he recalled well from his long-lasting feuds with them when he was a child and later when he became a guard of a merchant caravan. He loathed rats: their coarse fur, their elongated snouts, their dark beady eyes, their thin gray tails and dull brains, and he unleashed his ire upon an insignificant enemy with pleasure, imagining that one of these rats was Galmis Hlaalu. Alandro Sul looked at him with deep mortification, and Nerevar, coming to his senses, awkwardly put a hand on his shoulder.

“I abhor rats,” he muttered. “And don't you see why I abhor them so!” He exclaimed as they came across two skeletons sprawled clumsily on the stairs, as if death had assailed the mer to whom these bones once belonged unawares when they were crawling on their hands and knees. The bones still bore traces of flesh and for the lack of other scavengers in the shrine, it had to be the work of rats. Nerevar approached the nameless remains which were once a tall Chimer and an Argonian, searching his mind for a face or a name of a retainer who had an Argonian shield-bearer. “Horrid rats! Why, a most useless animal is incredibly tenacious; so tenacious, truly, that even Azura's curse cannot kill it.”

“No animal in nature is useless, my lord,” said Alandro Sul. “My Ashkhan always told me: do not underestimate mother nature, Alandro, for it was designed by our divine ancestors.”

“All rats surely are useless! What use does mother nature have for them, eh?”

“I don't know, but perhaps they serve as food for the nix hounds and they scavenge what would otherwise rot... I don't know, I'm not all-knowing.”

“What are we about? It's all nonsense...” Nerevar threw thin needles of ice at a loathsome brown rat which ran by him and smiled when it tumbled down and fell dead. “But, say, do you remember anyone with an Argonian shield-bearer?”

“Lizardfolk? I can't say I remember anyone by that description, my lord.”

They went on to cross the enormous hall, their steps echoing loudly under the barrel vault, and as they drew near the obsidian door where Vivec found Voryn, the Hortator remembered the sobering fear which overcame him on seeing his friend's blood-spattered body leaning against the wall, his head resting on his shoulder as if he had fallen asleep. On the floor were scattered pieces of thick dark chains which once anchored the Oblivion gate to Mundus. An enormous head from gray stone, baring its teeth in a greedy sneer, lay on the floor lifeless and brooding. During the struggle it broke off from the statue of Molag Bal which now loomed in the faint gleams of torchlight without its head and its right arm. Nerevar twisted his head round, and bare walls with angular decorations of all shapes and sizes stared back at him. The sight of these walls filled him with ennui.

Before they returned to the surface, they ransacked the lower caverns where macabre rituals have been performed for many days, but nothing seemed to them amiss and the altar, the cages on a rusty chain, and the instruments of torture remained undisturbed. Luminous mushrooms grew around the altar, sprinkled with glittering rime. Cold wind howled and shrieked through the crevices of the cave, playing with the feeble pale flame of the torch. That awful blackness which weighed upon them, suffocated them all those months ago, parted before them willfully, subsided, scattered, and around them stretched an ordinary cave, solemn and silent and besprinkled with snow-dust.

Nerevar reached for an object which attracted his attention, stooping over the altar, and when he drew himself up, on his palm lay a shimmering soul gem of the same color as the corrupted Star, but when he clenched his fingers around it, the brittle gem shattered into little pieces which crumbled and slipped through his fingers like sand.

Vivec caught up with them, shuffling about in his heavy boots, and leaned over a small pile of dust on the altar. The Tribune was overjoyed to hear that there was peace between Almalexia and him, and Nerevar happily offered his queen a golden kanet as a sign of his honorable intentions, enjoying his hard-won victory in Mzuanch.

“How did we miss them?” Asked Alandro Sul.

“All soul gems are rather small and easy to pass by, and we didn't know what to look for,” said Vivec. “Fascinating, isn't it? Of course, the feat seems less fascinating if we are to believe that Molag Bal shared his knowledge with the cultists. Still, it's a grim knowledge.”

“Indeed, a grim, deadly knowledge. Even Sil does not know what happens to the soul of a mortal which was once trapped inside one of these gems.”

“How vile!” Vivec wrinkled his nose.

The priestess followed them at some distance, muttering unfamiliar incantations and gesticulating frantically, and Nerevar beckoned her to look at the remains of a soul gem.

“Voryn told me that Azura tried to hide some evil secret from prying eyes, and all I find is this black soul gem. What can a mere moral such as I understand by looking at it?”

“Many of us covet power, Champion,” said the priestess mysteriously. “But the goddess said: the time hasn't come yet. The world cannot know, until it is fated to know, the secrets of sacred metamorphosis from life to death to un-death.”

“She hasn't been very forthcoming with me.”

“Is she ever forthcoming, Champion?”

And the priestess resumed weaving the web of her mysterious spell.

***

Ebonheart was the sister city to Mournhold in name only.

When Nerevar and his shield-bearer Alandro Sul emerged from the temple, they were impressed by the abundance of houses, wide more than they were high, under the squat roofs with curved eaves. There were no streets as such in Ebonheart and the buildings were erected in a disorderly manner – Telvanni towers alternated with wooden and brick houses of the Nords and three-storeyed abodes of Dres nobility under the curved roofs which extended far beyond the walls and edifices with small elegant turrets – resembling all in all a gigantic labyrinth more than this accumulation of architectural marvels resembled a city; and that labyrinth grew and swelled according to its own laws, becoming more disorderly and more unpleasant to the eye with each newly built house. Between the houses the ground was paved here and there with stone, yet often the winding roads and alleys were uneven, rutty and muddy. Thin guard towers divided the city into six districts, and large caps of snow on their roofs made them visible from afar. Under the windows of the guard towers hung particolored heraldic tapestries which were once bright and cheerful, and now appeared faded and torn, subjected frequently to the whims of foul weather.

Ebonheart was a free city long before Nerevar united the Ashlander tribes and Chimer nobility, but Almalexia gifted it to the head of House Dres who aided her in overthrowing the Nordic dominion over Mournhold and Nerevar, not wishing to rake over the old ashes, supported the claim of House Dres to annex the city to their lands. Needless to say, his decision upset Galmis Hlaalu who dreamed of extending his influence to the mainland. Galmis – the shameless scoundrel! - petitioned the Hortator for the fifth time to reconsider giving Ebonheart to the new head of House Dres, but Nerevar, in an outburst of anger, tore the petition into pieces and burned them. He'd never forswear himself for some wretched promise and he made it clear on quite a few occasions that his decision was final.

The edifice dedicated to the worship of Boethiah was impressive yet doomed to appear rather awkward like any other building which combined elements of Nordic and Telvanni architecture, and such monstrosity was inconceivable to anyone who hadn't seen it with his own eyes. Over thick walls made of wide logs rose to the colorless sky three twisted towers, like gnarled branches of wild trees, and there was no sense of proportion or orderliness about it, so highly valued in Velothi architecture. The temple garden was overgrown with bright-red mushroom trees which thrived in cold winter, and in the corner of it was a small frozen lake where the priests came out to pray. Boethiah's priest rose from his knees to greet esteemed guests and Nerevar asked him to show them the way to the castle through the maze in which they would surely lose their bearings. It wasn't uncommon for a mer who lived in Ebonheart since birth to lose his bearings in the city, to say nothing of a guest or a traveler. The priest confidently led them between houses, distinguishing between them somehow, through slush and mud, uphill and downhill, past the rare passersby whom the biting frost didn't scare off the streets, chattering incessantly about the cold weather, about Dres sisters who visited Ebonheart, about temple life, about some one thing and the other. To eager young mer like him priesthood suited even less than to a child of Mephala, and it seemed to Nerevar that the young priest didn't choose a life of service to the Daedric Princes, but like many children, he was sent to the temple by the poor parents who wished for a better life for their son or by the noble parents who wished to rid themselves of a nuisance.

“What do they call you?” Nerevar asked.

“My name is insignificant, m'lord Hortator.” His question put the priest to the blush.

“No, I insist. Tell me your name.”

“My name is Ovis, Ovis Arobar.”

'So he's from a very influential Redoran family,' thought Nerevar, overjoyed with his political acumen.

By the gate to Ebonheart castle, they parted company and a guard invited the Hortator and his shield-bearer into the audience chamber while he went to fetch the hostess. The room was well-lit and cozy, with a tall window curtained with golden curtains which afforded a view of the city, a bookshelf, three wooden tables and twice as many cushioned chairs around them. Nerevar glanced out of the window at the overcast firmament and as he turned to speak to his shield-bearer, he became aware that they were not alone. By one of the tables, almost concealed by the curtains, sat none other than Galmis Hlaalu himself.

Galmis was the oldest member of the Council and Nerevar's staunch enemy, the roots of their enmity going back to the day when Nerevar announced his bold ambition to unite all Houses under one banner. Galmis screamed himself hoarse, protesting the formation of the First Council, and since that day, he often joked that the name itself implied that there would be a second and a third council and 'who knows what other sort of council or perhaps no council at all'. And he often added that he would ally himself with 'the Nords, the good Daedra and the bad Daerda' to safeguard their traditions which were passed down through generations from the times when Saint Veloth set foot on Vvardenfell. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and imposing, and he had a booming loud voice becoming of his ruddy vigorous figure. His face was all covered in wrinkles which were particularly pronounced around his small, deep-set, merry eyes and on his forehead. He wore his beard thick and well-trimmed, and he had a habit of pinching it during a heated conversation although outwardly he would be as imperturbable as ever.

“Greetings, serjo,” he said, bowing his stately silver head. “What brings you to Ebonheart? Favela's funeral isn't in two weeks, ancestors bless her soul.”

“I could ask you the same question,” answered Nerevar, shaking off snow from his fur cloak, and, his panoply jangling, seated himself on a chair. “I am here to decide how we will celebrate chil'a. With an abundant feast, we will extol Azura and Mephala – with a delicious drink and a merry entertainment. Boethiah demands blood, and blood will be spilled in a combat to the death. But who will fight for the glory of Boethiah?”

“The Dres sisters?”

“You haven't heard?” Nerevar asked politely; his lips twitched and a weak smile enlivened his habitually expressionless face. “Dinara petitioned me to resolve her bitter dispute with her sister Uvoo over the inheritance of their late mother's wealth and her standing in the court as the head of House Dres. Their mother died suddenly, leaving no intelligible will to determine her successor and before the Dres Council will vote, there can remain only two challengers. The law is clear... And here's what I think. A bitter dispute can be settled only by an ordeal by combat. If they agree to fight to the death on chil'a, Boethiah will be immensely pleased, and who knows, perhaps she'll bless us and give us an edge in the fight against Molag Bal we so desperately need.”

“Mark my words that your frivolities won't be tolerated for much longer. Firstly, you shut the gates of Mournhold and then you allow an ordeal by combat, which isn't in itself unheard of. But the Dres sisters were clearly chosen by you – or perhaps it was Vivec who chose them for you so that the next head of House Dres would be in your debt. You cannot single-handed decide who will be the next head of the Great House. And, moreover, my treasurer is writing up the estimated costs of all the damage I sustained when the flow of trade in Mournhold was so rudely, brazenly interrupted.”

“Write them up, sera, I'll gladly look over them, but unfortunately the Council will refuse to compensate you and I can spare you the humiliation of rejection now, by telling you that it was within my right to shut the gates of Mournhold.”

“Do humor me, my lord,” boomed Galmis, pinching his beard.

“Let me refresh your memory... Perhaps I should begin with the first Council meeting after the war with the Nords. Vivec proposed to invest the Hortator and the queen with the power to act in a manner they deem fit when we face danger-”

“I'm not another duke Melen, I know our law. You're insulting me, serjo, when you suggest that I forgot about a most disastrous decision the Council chose to ratify. But what's the crisis you so conveniently adduce to justify your actions?”

“Why, the attack on Bal Fell, of course, and what we discovered in Mzuanch surely supports my misgivings... We're in a bit of an awkward predicament, my lord Galmis. I with my dear queen responded promptly to the looming threat from Molag Bal and for those campaigns we paid from our treasury. And they were costly campaigns... Ashlanders responded to my call to arms, and lord Voryn Dagoth, but few nobles were as eager to expend their gold and join me in defending our realm. What am I to do with them?”

“Of course, it had to be that ill-bred rascal Dagoth!”

“That 'ill-bred rascal' did his duty while you stayed in bed, guarding your gold,” Nerevar said scornfully and his face was convulsed with anger. “But when the Council convenes after chil'a, I will put an end to _your_ frivolities, believe me, sera.”

“And I will lament the dismal end of the self-sufficient era of your reign, serjo,” objected Galmis Hlaalu with desperate vivacity. “Who will make good on your promises?”

The old door by the bookshelf opened with a loud creak and Dinara Dres came in, accompanied by her obliging slave girl. She had a thin pretty face and small strong well-groomed hands, accustomed to wielding maces and crude clubs. Some time ago she was rumored to have in her possession the legendary Mace of Molag Bal which was gifted to her by the Prince of Domination for the slaughter of an Argonian family in the Black Marsh who provoked his wrath. Her appearance and her polite cordial greeting interrupted their impassioned argument, and Nerevar took leave of Galmis until the coming Council meeting during which they would doubtlessly quarrel again.

***

The air in the mines was hot, in spite of the severe frost outside, as though a dozen Dwemer furnaces were lit at once, and the miners who were mostly foreigners worked half-clothed, their shoulders and backs glistening with sweat. Wrinkling his nose from a foul smell, Voryn made his way through the dark cave whose walls reminded him of an ocean floor, the green sheens form glass veins dancing on the walls in a way that resembled reflections of luminous plants in the water. The mine was never quiet: loud clatter of pickaxes chipping at the walls, rattling of the wagons loaded with raw glass, voices and ghosts of voices were wafted along with breath of scalding-hot wind from its bowels.

Odros expected his arrival, receiving him in a small dry cave which accommodated a table spanning the entire width of the cave and a few rusty iron chairs of Dwemer design where the foreman miner often sat, with a tired face and dull greedy eyes. Odros curtly explained to him that he was satisfied with the work of his miners and Voryn complained to him about the Hunger which was let loose in his bedroom – a polite meaningless brotherly talk until the conversation touched upon Gilvoth.

“Did you talk to Gilvoth lately?” Asked his younger brother.

“Do you want to know the truth? I'm deliberately avoiding him because nothing good ever came out of our conversations. He expects me to release him from prison and ask his forgiveness for wrongfully punishing him – the scamp! A clever scamp... ”

“And did you receive any word from the Hortator? Any word at all?”

“I don't understand why he isn't answering me,” confessed Voryn.

“Then you must meet with him at once and demand an answer from him. Here's what I want to tell you. It was wise of you to call us together and duly advise us on the matter of Gilvoth's fate, but time won't wait for you and you must act soon. Vemyn and I thought of a neat solution should your Hortator fail to announce his decision... You can disown Dagoth-Gilvoth, strip him of his family name and even exile him if you wish. An exile cannot cast a shadow on the reputation of House Dagoth. And when he serves his sentence, we'll welcome him back with open arms if he demonstrates genuine repentance.”

“Only if I exhaust all arguments and the Hortator still won't listen to me... only then I will consider your suggestion.”

...After the conversation with his brother, Voryn was imbued with a sense of urgency and on returning to Kogoruhn, he put on a clean pair of shoes, expensive dark breeches and a cream blouse so as to look more impressive than he looked when he returned, tired and dusty, from the mine. His fingers tingled when he cast a spell impulsively, drawing generously from the raw energy around him and accompanying the incantation with a swift gesture, and when he found himself on the other side, he thought he had lost his arm. But there it was, hanging by his side, numb and useless. Voryn closed his eyes and moved his fingers, smiling when life returned into his lifeless flesh.

Nerevar was in his bedchamber alone, reclining in his chair with a bottle of wine in his hand, and his handsome profile came into view against the soft colors of the dying winter day. His eyes were riveted on something in the distance, his face was immovable, and a wine glass stood on the table forgotten. By the glass lay a piece of paper on which, in large intelligible letters, the Hortator wrote a sentence or a poem and forgot about it, too.

_"It is only by fate_

_that any life ends,_

_and only by chance_

_that it is mine..._

_not yours."_

“What is the fate of Chimer civilization?” Nerevar said, addressing no one, and Voryn, standing by the tapestry with prophet Veloth, was afraid to stir. “What do you hear in the whispers of twilight, mighty Azura? I often thought why Boethiah chose us and I can't understand... Did she choose us because we listened to her words, or did she choose us because were were gullible, ready to be deceived by a false Trinimac?” Nerevar fixed his eyes on him, recognizing him and smiling warmly. “Ah, Voryn, old friend, come in. Perhaps you can help me solve this riddle.” And he put his finger on the first line of the odd poem.

“What's it about?”

“I saw it in a dream long ago, written in fiery letters on the meadow of Moonshadow. What does this inscription mean?”

Voryn impatiently waved his hand. “I didn’t seek audience with you to solve your riddles. Chil'a is not far off and I still haven't heard from you. Not one word! Why I didn't you deign to respond to my letters?”

“The Dres nobles almost declared war on each other after Favela's death.” Nerevar drained his glass. “Someone had to prevent them from slaughtering the entire city of Narsis.”

“And what of me? If only that scoundrel Dun-Ilu didn't take it into his head to write you!”

“Here, have a glass of wine. I insist... It's all politics, Voryn. Nothing is more true or grievous. The Ahemmusa Ashkhan wants to demonstrate to you and other House nobles that his influence exceeds yours. It's a difficult task, but not altogether impossible. All he needs is a perfect crime, forgive my expression; a crime a noble commits in front of everyone and a perfect witness who was sworn not to lie... Have another glass of wine. Chil'a is tomorrow and everything is permitted when the old year dies...”

“What are you saying?”

“Your brother Gilvoth – I always knew he was ungracious – unwittingly committed a perfect crime in front of a perfect witness and the Ashkhan took this opportunity to advance his interests.”

“Did he write all of this in his letter?”

“No, he didn't have to write me anything. I took a guess, but I am sure my guess was right. When I demanded that the heads of Six Houses named me Hortator, I seized upon every favorable opportunity. Opportunities are worth more than gold... Do you know how I became Hlaalu Hortator?”

“I can’t imagine Galmis agreed to it, nor can I imagine that you begged for his permission.”

“How astute!.. Well, his mother had a taste for young mer. And it was all very harmless, mind you. She enjoyed their company and their flattery, and occasionally there were rumors that she took younger lovers. We quickly found a common tongue... We didn't talk for more than an hour before she saddled me like an 'untamed guar' – her words, not mine – and began her wild dance of passion, her mature breasts bobbing up and down, and between her portly thighs I thought to myself: 'Well, Nerevar, if you don't die today, victory is as good as yours.' I tried to tell her in this very thin voice about some policies of mine on which, mind you, I prided myself greatly, but she only squealed in delight and her breasts bobbed more vigorously. She was an admirable woman and I miss her terribly... In the morning, she went in front of the Hlaalu Councilors and proclaimed in good set terms, 'If you do not name him Hortator, I will disown you, Galmis.' And without further ado, I was named Hlaalu Hortator.” Nerevar laughed to his heart's content and, wiping tears from his eyes, added, “Imagine Galmis's face when she said she'd disown him, a face of a very unhappy mer... I think he never forgave me for that or perhaps it was for some other offense I caused him. Don't you have this impression sometimes that there are mer with whom you are not fated to get along, that there is a force in the world superior to any magics which governs our interactions... I'm not sure what I meant to say, but our characters are irreconcilable, so much so that when we are in the same room, our opinions will inevitably clash.”

“Allow me to say, with undue boldness, that some mythical forces are not to blame here. Galmis Hlaalu doesn't have a bone of ingenuity in his body, nor does he have it in him to appreciate you lively imagination. To such a mer nothing appears so dangerous as unorthodox thinking.”

“You flatter me, old friend.”

“No, I only speak the honest truth,” objected Voryn cunningly. “I would never lie with someone like Galmis's mother – the resemblance between her and Galmis was uncanny.”

They both laughed and comfortable silence settled over them, but the head of House Dagoth didn't come to Mournhold to exchange pleasantries or talk about good old days. He summoned up his courage and said:

“I assume you have made up your mind and you'll allow the proceedings to take place.”

“I haven't made up my mind at all, but I am inclined to appease the Ashlanders. They've always been staunch valuable allies.”

“And have I not been loyal to you?”

Nerevar looked at him with his bottomless, rapturous eyes. “You've been a friend to me, not merely an ally... Allies are fickle and you'll understand... you must understand that I am powerless to help you and that I can't accomplish miracles... Yes, you must...” He trailed away. 

“Your friendship comes at great cost to my honor, lord Nerevar,” said Voryn bitterly.

Nerevar impulsively took his hand – he was dead drunk by then although he kept his composure well – and for what happened after that Voryn ascribed blame only to himself. He should have excused himself, but he waited like a fool, looking into those rapturous eyes and refusing to believe that it was Nerevar on his knees in front of his chair, that it was Nerevar's hand convulsively clutching his hand while his fingers fumbled with the silk laces of his breeches. And then – oh, Azura! - that drunk scoundrel took his whole finger in his mouth and licked it slowly as a prelude of what he'd do when the breeches came off.

It was madness, and Voryn desired to be mad on the eve of chil'a when all was allowed, yet the mere thought of such an indecent proposal from his Hortator terrified him out of his wits. And in the shadows on the wall Voryn fancied he saw Mephala, her nude muscular torso with six arms, her enormous erect phallus – Mephala the Webspinner, dancing, celebrating; Mephala the Spider who always appeared to him male.

Trembling from head to toe, Voryn raised his hand to Nerevar's temple, whispered a few words, and between his fingers flashed a tiny bright spark; and when the spark was swallowed by the night, Nerevar's head helplessly fell on his knees. He was in a deep sleep like a newborn child. 

Voryn leaned back in his chair; his eyes fell on an unseemly protrusion in his breeches and he burst out laughing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well...
> 
>  _It is only by fate_ \- This sort of poem? as well as the chapter title which was taken from it comes from the [Worn, faded note](http://www.uesp.net/wiki/Oblivion:Worn,_Faded_Note). It is found in TES:Oblivion during Azura's quest
> 
>  _self-sufficiency_ \- Galmis Hlaalu talks about the principle of self-sufficiency in this chapter. According to Aristotle, an ideal, desired monarch profits only from its lands and possessions rather than from taxing the people


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience and lovely comment as always :3

** Chapter 9: Chil'a **

Nerevar woke up with a headache so terrible that he couldn't ascribe it to the state of obscene drunkenness in which he spent an entire evening, or to any of the usual causes, and if he tried to recall what befell him before he retired for the night, he would see a flash of bright light and nothing more. Neither the cup of hot tea which a handmaiden brought for him, nor a healing spell could alleviate the pain, and he resolved to bear it stoically even if he couldn't quite make sense of it all.

On the eve of chil'a, he often drank wine in his bedroom, with only sunset to accompany him, and reflected on his victories and losses. It was his habit to enjoy a few hours of solitude and drink himself silly so that he wouldn't be tempted to indulge in spirits during the feast. Unbeknownst to all but Alandro Sul, he partook only water while the rest of his subjects made merry and caroused out of fear that his enemies would try to poison him or otherwise injure him, availing themselves of his inattentiveness and indiscretion. But yesterday Voryn interrupted his yearly ritual and they talked for a bit about his brother's misadventures, and his own youthful escapades in court from the times when they were an enticing novelty to him, when he had just discovered that both men and women were susceptible to his charm. And the more they talked, the more certain Nerevar became that Voryn who wasn't married or constrained by other oaths wasn't adverse to fooling around with him, but perhaps it was a fancy of his inebriated mind, a brief illusion in the dark, and the days when his friend looked at him with bold adoration had long since passed. Why was he visited with that disastrous want to 'fool around' with Voryn in such a way?

'It was meant to be just that - a foolery,' he assured himself. 'Will he understand that I implied nothing by it?'

 Owing to the confusion and the irritation which were aroused by his sullen thoughts, Nerevar felt even more miserable.  

Grayish morning light shone scarcely through the window and a smell of fresh snow was wafted through it, but both the sunlight and the gusts of cold wind caused him acute torment. Nerevar clasped his head between his arms and gritted his teeth, wishing fervently to hide in a dark warm corner far away from the bustle and the tantalizing aromas of the winter garden.

A servant girl returned and asked him quietly if he wanted to call for a more experienced healer.

"Call for Sotha Sil," he replied, stifling a groan.

Sotha Sil came in dressed in a festive attire, but he glanced at Nerevar's face once and shed it in favor of a simple brown robe. He pressed his cold palm to the Hortator's sweaty forehead, listened to his heartbeat and his anxious countenance brightened up, and his surly frown dissipated.

"You're quite all right, Nerevar," he announced cheerfully and the Hortator winced from the sound of his loud voice. "I was worried at first that you had fallen ill, but as it turns out you're suffering from a temporary curse whose nature I don't wholly comprehend. But don't fret yourself! It will wear off in an hour."

"An entire hour?"

"I know of curses that plagued mer for a lifetime."

"How is it a consolation to me? I want to be free of it now."

"I must thoroughly study the spells which served as the basis for its creation or my remedy will only make matters worse. A crafty malediction like this one weaves elements from two or three schools of magic into one unbroken whole, so to speak... It will take me a few hours to familiarize myself with it and you'll be unlucky if it lasts half as long. Why don't you ask the mage who cast it to undo it unless it was one of your disgruntled former lovers?"

"You wouldn't want to know if I told you the truth," muttered the Hortator.

Sotha Sil looked at him sternly, moving his lips as if intending to reprimand him, but having changed his mind, he threw the ceremonial robe over his shoulder and waved a hand at parting. Nerevar followed his tall scrawny figure with his eyes until he was out of sight and drew himself up from the bed upon which he reposed himself during the conversation with his Tribune. It was awfully tempting to send for Voryn, but he couldn't come face to face with his friend in an unbuttoned gown, tangled up in its hem, with bloodshot eyes and tousled hair. The mere thought of it was unbearable to him. Only that Nerevar who radiated confidence and generosity, graceful and well-mannered and well-disposed towards everyone inspired his subjects with adoration; this Nerevar was wretched and pitiful, deserving of scorn or commiseration, and he didn't want to show himself even to the servants.

After he sent away a handmaiden in tears, there was a brief commotion behind the door to his bedchambers, and the guard had no sooner announced his queen's arrival than an incensed Almalexia swiftly rushed to his bedside. Behind her a throng of curious servants thrust themselves in at the doorway, but she recovered her senses and slammed the door forcefully before leaning over to him, her lips pursed and eyes flashing fire.

"Nerevar, I came to tell you that we'll be late to the arena if you don't get out of bed at once," she said impatiently. The queen was half-dressed, and in any other circumstance he would appreciate her sensual beauty, but she was the picture of health and goodwill, and her long plump arms, her full thighs, and every part of her he had known intimately which was exposed as a challenge to him - all of it was loathsome to him. "Sil told me everything... Name that foolish mage who cursed you and I'll drag him here against his will if I must!"

"Almalexia, I beg you, don't scream at me," replied Nerevar, burying his face in a soft silken pillow. He longed to see the soothing colors of Moonshadow and hear the music of its fountains, but he abandoned hope that the goddess would invite him to her realm to cure him of a nasty headache.

"Nerevar, you're king and you have a duty to appear before your people."  

"I know, my dear wife, of my obligations, but I am king as you so kindly reminded me and they will respect my wishes."

"So you'll suffer, but you won't give up the name of the culprit who had injured you. What has gotten into you?"

Nerevar raised himself on the elbow. "I doubt I need your help to reconcile our differences."

"When you behave like a petulant child, luxuriating in bed in your... dressing gown while the people are waiting for your appearance, it's fair to say that you need my help."

"Don't tell me you never dreamed of addressing the citizens of Mournhold instead of me - the first queen of Resdayn who recognizes no equal!" Exclaimed Nerevar irritably, forgetting about the pains. "I don't mind if you take my place today. No one will mind."

"By Azura, can you hear yourself?" Almalexia imploringly clasped his hot hand. "If I wanted to take your place, I wouldn't try to persuade you to come to your senses. In these uncertain times, people will be overjoyed to see their king and queen in good health."

Nerevar yanked his hand away from her, repulsed by her touch.

"No one appreciates me, that's the whole truth," he went on hotly. "I've given my life to them without recompense, but they still demand something from me, insatiable, ungrateful brutes! All I have are illusions, and I am poorer than the poorest of my subjects!.. What if I told you that I want them to despair?" He glanced at Alamlexia's countenance on which fear vied with indignation, and understood that he didn't know what it was that he wanted to say, and, feeling both vindicated in his anger and ashamed of it, he fell silent.

His wife shook her head helplessly. "When you're like that, I can't..." She threw up her hands. "I refuse to reason with you."

The door opened and closed after her, and blissful silence settled over the room. Nerevar came up to the window, and his eyes swept the snowbound garden below and the gray expanse of the despondent sky, lingering listlessly on the restless figures of servants running to and fro. He swallowed his seething anger, but he felt no sense of relief, no sense of familiar gaiety which often mollified the momentary outburst of ire.

The invisible crown of Resdayn weighted heavily upon the Hortator's brow.

***

The celebration of chil'a in Mournhold began when the king and the queen of Resdayn appeared in the courtyard of the palace before the three rows of selected guards in ceremonial armor of House Indoril who were to stand motionless with their spears tilted forwards to demonstrate iron discipline instilled in them during training. But the guard stood motionless, patches of pale light shimmering at the tips of their spears, the time hung heavy and there was a stir in the crowd of nobles which could erupt into an unrest, yet the royal couple didn't hurry to join the festivities or send a herald to announce the reasons of their absence.

Voryn awaited the appearance of the Hortator in deep agitation, standing now and again on tiptoe so as to look over the sea of heads at the palace doors, and with a palpitating heart he fancied that the heavy folds had moved and that the splendid procession was just about to make its triumphant entrance. He was remorseful about casting that spell which surely caused Nerevar suffering, and at the first opportunity he wanted to ask his forgiveness and explain to him that he was afraid to act on his desires out of prudence. But when Voryn's attention drifted away, the one picture arose before his eyes over and over, vivid and tantalizing: the inviting gaze of those grey, rapacious eyes, the familiar countenance gentle and impassioned and not at all forbidding - and he doubted that he had the firm resolve to fling it all away.

'By Azura, what am I thinking?' Voryn was horrified. 'I came to him to demand a verdict for Gilvoth and now my brother's fate isn't even a weight on my mind. I have forgotten it all! But I fret myself about ending up in bed with Nerevar... Why, he is right, a thousand times right! I hesitate and in moments of debilitating hesitation, I let what I desire most slip through my grasp.'

Voryn glanced round himself and, muttering a half-hearted apology, shoved aside a broad-shouldered House noble who stood in front of him so as to get a better view of the door, but he had scarcely emerged from the crowd when an imposing hoary Chimer, arrayed in expensive furs and gold, raised his voice.

"Where is our esteemed king and Hortator?" He asked. It was none other than Galmis Hlaalu whom the head of House Dagoth knew in passing because Nerevar often argued with him during the Council meetings. "Tell him that we're weary of waiting for him."

The immovable guard by the door paid the enraged noble no heed, but Galmis showed no intention of relenting. The throng made way for him and his impressive retinue in bonemold armor - all tall stately Chimer who were indistinguishable from one another save for the motley coats of arms - and he addressed the guard boldly to demonstrate his authority.

"If the Hortator doesn't join us soon, I will be leaving to celebrate chil'a at my own estate," he said. "I know that I speak only for myself, but I suspect that many of you share my sentiment."

"I don't have to listen to you, Hlaalu dog!" Exclaimed duke Melen of House Redoran with animation. His attire was as garish and tasteless as his manners were boorish and overbearing, and no one expected him to behave with grace and tact befitting the head of the House. (In Resdayn, the word 'nix-hound' didn't bear an opprobrious connotation; the insult 'dog' was adopted from the Nedes, but it didn't become a House noble to utter it any more than writing poetry in formal Velothi language befitted an Argonian slave). 

"My dear duke Melen," Galmis said, bowing to the young mer with derisive humility, "I never put to question your devotion to the Hortator. All of us here are his loyal servants and subjects. But to stand in the snow for hours, waiting until the graces us with his presence... will it not make you seem more of a dog than I?" And he pointed to the dark, dismal sky which betokened a heavy snowfall.

A few nobles laughed and Vilvan Melen who was beside himself with anger impulsively put a hand on the hilt of his sword, making his intentions known to challenge the head of House Hlaalu, but his antics didn't upset Galmis's equanimity; quite the contrary, the smile on his face grew wider and more guileful.

"My esteemed duke, you know it better than I that we must petition the king for permission to fight each other if I can't settle your grievances peacefully."

Vilvan withdrew in humiliation and Galmis looked at the crowd, choosing the next victim of his scathing sarcasm. His eyes fell on Voryn who stood calmly by the staircase which was heaving with people, but before they could exchange unflattering remarks for the delectation of the other nobles, the stoic guard struck thrice at the folds of the door with the shaft of his spear and announced the arrival of the Hortator.

The doors were flung open and the head of the procession walked through it: six priests and priestesses in flowing robes and wreathes, each carrying a wooden staff, nine standard bearers with banners of Moon and Star, guarded on each side by three Ashlanders in chitin armor with feathery adornments whom many in the courtyard regarded with hostility, and, lastly, Vivec. Behind him side by side walked slowly and stately the king and the queen of Resdayn. Nerevar's shoulders were broader in the ceremonial golden panoply of House Indoril with curved pauldrons of rather impractical length and he seemed to sag under their weight. The bedazzling jewelry accentuated his pallor, exacerbating Voryn's impression that he was worn out by some inner suffering. During the war with the Nords he would sometimes come to the tent, disheveled, tired, and bow-backed from the weight of the terrible responsibility, reminding them that the Champion of Azura was but a mortal mer. Almalexia, too, was thoughtful and mirthless and she raised her arm to greet the nobles out of an onerous duty rather than genuine goodwill. Her armor was more austere than Nerevar's and the darker hues suited her and the lugubrious mood of the procession more than the Hortator's blue skirts trimmed with gold. Sotha Sil walked at the end of the procession, visibly bearing discomfort in a dark-blue robe with quaint decorations from jasper on the sleeves and on the belt girt round his waist.

Something cold and wet touched his cheek and Voryn noticed that it was snowing, but the snowflakes were heavy and sparse and they melted quickly. The guards of House Indoril upraised their spears skywards and shouted a thunderous greeting to the rulers of Resdayn. After the Hortator gave them the blessing of the ancestral spirits, they parted before the procession, forming around it a corridor of living bodies, and the nobles followed after them, pushing one another like ill-mannered peasants. Voryn was swept along by the crowd and he lost sight of Nerevar, but at the gate he overtook the Hortator again while he and the queen mounted their guars: each was a white magnificent beast with a proud tread, embellished with a traditional shabrack on which were depicted a moon and an eight-pointed star embroidered with a golden thread. Voryn unceremoniously shouldered aside an insignificant noble who minced along the lines of the Indoril guard and dropped on one knee before the white guar, gripping the reins with both hands.

"My lord, please-" He whispered frantically.

"Not right now, Voryn."

"I meant to say... allow me to remove the curse I so carelessly put on you. It'll only be a moment..."

Nerevar rose in the stirrups with a faint smile on his lips. "Do you always curse your luckless admirers, Voryn, or did you make an exception for me?"

Voryn drooped his gaze, looking mortified, but his spirits soared and he hurried to unweave his own spell, noticing, before the nobles separated them, a gleam of gratitude in Nerevar's eyes. He hoped to hear that the Hortator retained no memories of the unfortunate night, yet when he had to abandon his vague hopes, he wasn't at all distressed or confused. He was overcome with a kind of confidence which had no grounds in any one event, but was rather a fruit of a fevered imagination, and he was certain all of a sudden that everything around him was an irrefutable sign of Nerevar's affection.

The stream of people flowed steadily through the gate, bending round the small island on which was erected a majestic statue of Indoril Nerevar accepting blessings from Azura, and Voryn let that stream carry him across the vast expanse of the plaza. The snowfall gained strength and the drifting white pall of snow obscured from view the face of the goddess which came from the chisel of the finest Dwemer sculptors and the Hortator's well-set figure in a leather loincloth. Nerevar was fond of the statue, but he often joked that if he were half as stalwart and fearless in life as the overzealous Dwemer portrayed him, he could conquer entire Tamriel and Voryn agreed that in the Hortator's sculpture there was a robustness innate in the Dwemer people.

The procession traversed the plaza and dove into the narrow street which led to the wide bridge across river Nayne. On the opposite bank of the river, in the Temple district and around the bazaar, were erected rich edifices of Redoran and Hlaalu nobility and in the southernmost corner the architects built the enormous Arena so that it wouldn't overshadow the grandiosity of the tall towers under many-tier roofs. The journey to the arena was slow and uneventful save for the encounter with the nude servants of Molag Bal. They waited until the Hortator's retinue drew near the bridge and poured out onto the street from the sewers and alleys which enclosed, in an embrace, the narrow riverbed. There were men and women amongst them in rags and nude, but in sheer ecstasy of the ritual, they paid no mind to the frost. It could be that some magic protected them from the whims of winter, and as before, they danced with abandon and hurled dirt into the onlookers, shouting nonsense in their imagined language. A youth in tatters beat a guarskin drum and Voryn curiously peered into his face, but it was blank, with thin unassuming features, and it revealed nothing to him. Some Chimer staunchly believed that during chil'a their patron deities walked on Nirn like mere mortals and if they had the acumen to tell them apart from their neighbors, they would be blessed with unimaginable riches and good fortune. Voryn considered it a fruitless superstition, but a misguided, unfortunate child in front of him would cling to any such belief at the expense of his mortality because it gave meaning to his senseless suffering.

The guards drove the naked dancers away, the boy with a forgettable face was swallowed up by the sea of many similar emaciated faces, and the solemn procession crossed the bridge without ado, going deeper into the Temple district.     

...In the arena, men and mer of all conditions had gathered for a bloody spectacle and when the king and the queen ascended the stairs to their makeshift thrones, they shook off torpor, raising their arms and voices in a self-forgetful expression of jubilance. From time immemorial, divinity has been ascribed to the rulers and to a simple craftsman or merchant, the glory of his ancestors and kings shone brighter than the otherworldly radiance of gods. There were heard expressions of frustration in the multitudes, but they were scarce and a continuous outcry of great excitement drowned them out. Voryn seated himself on a chair by the Hortator's throne and sought for Gurak whom he hasn't seen since early morning, but the Orc was nowhere to be found, and out of idle curiosity, he took a view of the arena. The blizzard abated as a sign of Boethiah's will in whose name the merrymaking and the bloodshed were dedicated. The snow which besprinkled the arena began to thaw, exposing patches of wet sand, and against the melancholy of the winter landscape stood out bright and fantastic blazonry of the House nobility which littered the galleries.  

A herald led the combatants into the arena and introduced them to the illustrious assemblage. Dinara Dres wore heavy Daedric armor and wielded the mace of Molag Bal with astounding boldness in the view of the recent events; the weapon glowed ominously and a faint aura emanated from it of magic adverse to the souls of Anuic origin. Her sister Uvoo studied conjuration with two Telvanni masters of magic arts and was in possession of a powerful ebony staff which, as the herald explained to them, granted its owner defense against weapons of melee. She comported herself with defiance in her scarlet robe, but looking at them, so young, spirited and condemned, Voryn couldn't elude a bad augury.  

The herald concluded his introduction with a brief prayer to Boethiah, and began enumerating the rules of combat which outright forbade the combatants to injure anyone in the audience, cast dangerous spells, call for their shield-bearers or leave the boundaries of the arena until one of them was defeated. The Arbiters - two imposing Telvanni mages in unadorned black robes - were tasked with observing the rules and negating any forbidden magics. Only the Hortator was invested with the authority to spare the combatants, but the herald warned the sisters that Nerevar thought it fit to forgo his right for the time being.  

"And at last, esteemed spectators, let me remind you that the combatants belong to House Dres," added the herald with a thunderous voice. "If they are fighting for the honor of their House, they will not at any time aim to injure each other's eyes. Do you understand me? Excellent! The rules are brutal, but you will be remembered for many years to come and a crown of glory will be your reward! And now, without more ado, let the duel commence!"

Voryn caught sight of Nerevar's face which was aglow with excitement; it transformed him into the Hortator he was accustomed to seeing, unbridled and vigorous.  

"Nerevar, who do you suppose will win?" Asked Vivec, leaning over to the Hortator. "My bet is on Uvoo. She's crafty, conniving and resourceful."

"I don't think it'll be Uvoo," replied Almalexia. "Dinara is faster, stronger and magic tricks won't baffle her."

"And you, Voryn? What do you think?"

"I haven't given it thought, Vivec. It will be the will of Boethiah."

"What a boring answer!"

Nerevar kept silence, ignoring them altogether, but a deep crease between his eyebrows testified to some arduous thought which continued to trouble him.  

Almalexia waved a red kerchief, and a low, deep rumble of drums swept across the arena. The Dres sisters walked to the opposite corners and Uvoo summoned a flame atronach, cast a bright-orange shield on herself and with a wave of a staff, called forth one lightning bolt after another. All the while Dinara stood with an unconcerned air about her, raising a Daedric shield from time to time to protect herself from an erratic barrage of spells, and destructive magic shattered against it, leaving on its polished surface harmless sooty stains. The atronach swiftly advanced towards her, but its advance was cut short with a precise, deadly swing of a mace.

"What is she waiting for?" Exclaimed Vivec irritably.

Voryn looked away from the arena to pour himself a glass of brandy and when he raised his head, Uvoo had already summoned a daedroth and persisted in bombarding her sister with simple spells, trying to catch her unawares. One of those spells struck Dinara in the chest and she reeled back ungracefully, extinguishing the flames which clung to her armor, but to all appearances she was content with defending herself.

Uvoo grew bolder, forcing her sister to retreat to the extremities of the arena, and the crowd rewarded her with loud exclamations and applause. In Dinara's shield there appeared a deep indentation and she dropped on one knee, but she held her head up high and swung the accursed mace wildly to keep her sister at bay. Voryn sensed echoes of an unfamiliar magic in the air, but he brushed aside all suspicions and leaned forward, his attention preoccupied with the melee. The crowd burst out into loud shouting when the daedroth who till then stood idle and aloof knocked the shield out of Dinara's hand and as she reached for it, Uvoo summoned a brilliant lightning from the sky and it struck her sister in the back.

But the threads of unfathomable magic hung thick and heavy in the air, and the Arbiters outwardly expressed no worry about it.

After Dinara smashed the daedroth's skull with the mace of Molag Bal and regained her footing, Voryn turned to Nerevar. "My lord, I beseech you to put a stop to the contest," he said with animation.

"They've spilled their first blood. The Hortator-"

"To Malacath with all the rules, Vivec! I think they intend to kill the king."

"It's a serious accusation, Voryn," Nerevar raised his voice with an air of a man who was startled out of a dream. "Do you have any proof?"

"There may be some truth in his words," Sotha Sil interposed in the disagreement, but Dinara assailed Uvoo with suddenness and fury of a hurricane in the Deadlands and Voryn could but helplessly watch as her mace rose and fell, engulfed in bluish flame.

The Hortator leaped to his feet and threw the red kerchief onto the arena. There was some confusion in the crowd and among the Arbiters, but they signaled the end of the melee a moment too late and the mace of Molag Bal bathed in blood when Dinara at last struck her sister down with a blow to the temple. A thin black spire shot up from under the arena and on it Uvoo's body dangled helplessly, pierced by many sharp protuberances which twined round her, taking shape of an enormous hollow gate. A bloodcurdling scream rent the air and nobles and commoners alike fled every which way, shoving each other aside and trampling down the slow, the clumsy and the weak as it often happened during a stampede. Dinara shouted a few words which were carried away by the wind and in the black frame of the Oblivion gate, filled up to the brim with even blue flame, appeared a colossal armored creature - neither a dragon, nor an ogre, or any known beast, with the wings and the head of the former, arms and legs of the latter and an enviable ferocity. The Arbiters rushed to the arena so as to give the citizens of Mournhold time to escape, and powerful spells rained down upon the colossus, but the elements only drove it into blind frenzy. The colossus lifted one of the Arbiters above its head and, crushing him in its powerful grip, hurled the lifeless body into the empty gallery.

"Almalexia, protect the palace!" Exclaimed Nerevar, fiddling about with the clasps of his ceremonial armor which in a fight would only burden him. "I'll distract it and kill it with some luck while the rest of you scour the city for more Oblivion gates."

Almalexia, too, freed herself from the panoply while in the arena the colossus chased after the last Arbiter, roaring in savage delight.

"I understand your wish, husband," she said imperiously, tossing aside a gilded helmet. "All of you, come with me."

"You don't even have a proper sword, my lord," objected Voryn. "I won't leave you to fight that brute by yourself."

The Hortator heeded his entreaties and with somber determination jumped onto the empty arena.

"I should have known they would attack us during the celebration of chil'a," the head of House Dagoth heard him mutter. "Unforgivable!"

The Daedric Titan shattered the Arbiter's magic shield and tore his body in half, lavishly sprinkling the sand with blood and bowels. In the commotion, Dinara disappeared from sight; the spectators, too, had long since scattered about and they found themselves face to face with the monstrous creation of Molag Bal.

"If you want to help me," said Nerevar, "give me a Daedric sword and armor."

Voryn conjured a two-handed sword and a panoply from the depths of Oblivion, and the Hortator fearlessly and with a spring in his step, walked towards the spawn of Molag Bal's magic, looking younger and stronger owing to the joy roused by the fray. The Titan opened its maw, igniting the sand under the Hortator's feet with its deadly breath, but the head of House Dagoth in time erected a shimmering shield in front of him and quenched the fire. Nerevar furiously swung his sword and it fell upon the creature like lightning through the thick smoke only to rebound from its armored spine. The fire shield shattered into smithereens, but the Hortator adroitly dove under the titan's arm and thrust his sword into its underbelly. Voryn, forgetting himself, wove one spell after another and the air around him sparkled with latent magic - now lightning struck at the titan's head, now spears of flame and ice tested the durability of its armor, now a brilliant aura cloaked it from head to toe, feeding off its life force.

The titan began to tire itself out and the Hortator's sword found its mark more often; the titan's limbs and body were covered in deep gashes from which slowly oozed dark-green blood, staining the sand of the arena, but it was remarkable that none of Nerevar's mighty blows felled it. And after what seemed to him hours of grueling battle, Voryn felt his own reserves of magicka deplete. He couldn't cast spells and the shield around Nerevar cracked, and the armor and sword vanished from whence he summoned them in spite of all his efforts to hold out until the titan's demise. The colossus sensed the onslaught slacken and assailed them with renewed zeal, putting to use its wings, claws and destructive magic.

Nerevar retreated to the extremities of the arena, breathless from strenuous fighting; his warm attire was torn to shreds and his shoulder was bleeding, but he valiantly called upon his own power and the titan who followed him relentlessly staggered, as if stumbling into an invisible obstacle. Suddenly Voryn caught sight of Alandro Sul who stood by the entrance to the arena, frantically waving his arm, and he wordlessly suggested to the Hortator that they should withdraw for the time being. Nerevar nodded his head and beckoned his shield-bearer, asking him for the spear, but whilst his attention was occupied with the youth, the titan with a deafening roar rushed towards them, tearing down Voryn's weak shields one by one. Loyal Alandro Sul stepped between the Hortator and the spawn of Molag Bal, but the titan flung him out of its way as though he were light as a feather. Voryn didn't have the time to comprehend the enormity of what he was about to do; the titan was in front of him, wings spread menacingly, jaws agape, and he gathered his meager strength to conjure a thin shimmering veil round himself. He heard Nerevar's frightened scream behind him, but he stood unflinchingly in front of his Hortator, though his shield dissipated from a vicious blow and his body was afire.

'Forgive me, Nerevar,' he thought as his legs gave way under him and the sands of the arena swallowed him.

***

Voryn woke up in the dark, his head resting on Nerevar's lap, and covered his eyes from a pale light which shone above him. Owing to that weak light, he knew that he was with the Hortator - his strained countenance loomed before his unsteady gaze - but to their whereabouts testified only a quiet dripping of water from the ceiling and a dreadful stench of waste. He lay on the cold stones, numb and unmoving, and if it wasn't for the Hortator's body hot as a furnace and a small, quivering fire on the barren floor which he noticed after the amulet in Nerevar's hand crumbled to dust, he would have surely died from biting frost.

Voryn stirred, but deceptive darkness which concealed the ceiling and the walls from his tired eyes didn't dissipate, and he gingerly yet with little luck tried to crawl towards the fire. Nerevar in a constrained voice ordered him not to fidget about and wrapped a warm cloak around his shoulders.

"There is a deep gash across your chest," he added, taking a hold of himself. "I am not a healer and that amulet was all I had to staunch the bleeding. It was foolish of you, unforgivably reckless... But I swear on Azura's name that you won't die today. Do you hear me?"

Voryn touched the singed, blood-soaked festive robe on his breast and an indescribable dread gained mastery over him. He was weak, yet his mind wasn't dulled by pain and he recognized the danger of being stranded Boethiah only knew where, wounded and helpless, while the Daedra ravaged their city. Voryn looked his old friend in the face and, seeing the same fear reflected on it, he was filled with pity for the both of them.

"Nerevar, I implore you..." He coughed and shivered.

"I want to hear nothing of it! Don't you understand that if you insist on doing your duty, I can't abandon you in spite of your lofty intentions?"

"I'm not as selfless as you want to believe and I won't ask you to leave me here to die. But you don't have to tend to me as if I were a newborn. Where's Alandro Sul? Leave me with him and return to the palace-"

"And what good will that do?" Nerevar interrupted him wearily. "I sent Alandro to find a passage that leads to the surface and until he returns with good news we can't leave this godforsaken sewer."

"The Mournhold sewer?"

"Where do you suppose we are? I thought the stench would give it away by now... We got lost, Voryn, and that's that."

Voryn hearkened to the faint hollow groans in the distance and a barely audible patter of small feet which now grew louder, now faded away, as if there was a large rat scurrying about the waterway. 

"I am terribly sorry for... all of it," he whispered.

The Hortator shook his head, groping around for a spear, but Voryn couldn't tell what startled him until he heard an otherworldly wail and a light tread, and smelled the putrid flesh. Nerevar noiselessly vanished in the darkness and after a brief but violent struggle to which testified fiery flares and the screech of the wounded, enraged creature, he returned with a handful of dry bones. The small fire burned brighter and merrier, devouring the remains of the powerful undead.

"Voryn, you're a master of magic, so tell me why a lich would enjoy living in a sewer," Nerevar said, leaning against the wall.

"Don't we have anything better to do than talking idly?"

"I'm all ears, but until you think of something, talk away."

"All cities are built upon old graveyards, upon bones of the countless dead men and mer. A sewer lies at the foundation of the city, bordering on the graveyards and the crypts. In some way a sewer is also a tomb." Voryn succeeded in casting a simple healing spell and glanced meaningfully at Nerevar who stared into the dancing fire.

"I like your explanation... Perhaps you could tell me what manner of abomination we fought today in the arena. What foul magic created it? Does it have a weakness?"

"You're rambling on, Nerevar. I place my knowledge at your disposal, but I'm not all-knowing. I have never in my travels encountered so vicious a beast."

They sat in silence for a while, undisturbed by the inhabitants of the underground, and Voryn dropped his head onto his chest, enjoying the peace and the quietude, until the Hortator's sudden words roused him from his light sleep.

"Voryn," he said, "will you forgive my inappropriate behavior last night?"

"Let's forget about everything," Voryn objected hastily. "Your apology put me to shame and I... How can I say it? I'm conscious that the fault had been partly my own. I was inconsiderate and I caused you pain thoughtlessly."

"No, I presumed upon your friendship. But answer me in all honestly and I swear I will forget about all of it if you refuse me flatly... If I were more decorous in expressing my attraction to you, if I confessed to you what I've only realized now, would your answer change?"

"And Almalexia won't object to you spending nights with me?"

"She is my wife and queen, but these are mere formalities I adhere to so as to keep peace in the realm entrusted to me. Our enemies often reproach us for not giving Resdayn an heir. If our marriage was idyllic, I'd have as many children as you have brothers... But even so I consider myself rather fortunate beside the scions of the decadent Empire. I didn't have to marry my not-so-distant relative - a terrible plight of many kings."

 "Explain to me why I should hear more of the particulars of your marriage," Voryn pleaded. He felt himself naked before the Hortator's stare which seemed to judge his affections with utmost severity and giddy from the loss of blood, ebullient and ashamed of his indecisiveness.

"I wish to allay your fears that my intentions are dishonest." There was a gentleness in Nerevar's voice and firmness. "The truth is that I'm tired of deception. Together we conquered a continent and yet I believed for a long time that I couldn't love anyone but myself. Look at me now... I want to tell you without shame, without regret that I'm drawn to you, Voryn. I don't know if it is love or illusion, if I'm right in telling you this or I err... But I'm at your mercy, so say something."

"I can't say anything you don't already know, so I take refuge in silence... I also happen to consider the sewer an odd place to confess my sincere feelings to you," Voryn added, laughing quietly. "What do we do now?"

"I don't know... In spite of what you may believe, Azura didn't bestow me with a gift of foresight. The future is just as obscure for me as it is for you."

And, gazing intently at him, Nerevar, too, laughed.

***

They plodded along the waterway for hours - two tired travelers in dirty, blood-soaked clothes and a dispirited youth - and around them stretched, uninviting and unadorned, wide expanses of rooms enclosed in moldy walls, narrow aqueducts, and half-sunken dome-like structures. The waterway was a labyrinth under the city: wherever they went, they saw the same rooms and walls with rusty gratings, reservoirs with stale water and the never-ending arch of the stone ceiling. From Nerevar's terse remarks Voryn concluded that the Daedric Titan didn't follow them into the sewer beneath the arena, but the Hortator carried him deep into the maze of waterways and neither he nor his shield-bearer paid heed to the path they took. Not an hour had gone by before they couldn't find their bearings and the Hortator ordered Alandro Sul to look for a passageway back to the city whilst he rested and healed Voryn's wounds. But as ill luck would have it or Boethiah willed it, Alandro Sul was waylaid by liches and their skeletal servants and he returned to their makeshift camp dismayed and empty-handed, finding them asleep by the dying fire. He told them that the fire attracted a few dozen large brown rats and as he drove them away, shouting, stomping his feet and valiantly swinging his dagger left and right, Voryn awoke from his uneasy slumber and mistook him for a lich. After the commotion died down, the youth told them about his misadventures. He was on the verge of tears, his voice trembled and he muttered, 'I was scared, I didn't want to die' over and over until the Hortator told him to come to his senses.

Drenched to the skin in fetid water, tormented by hunger, tired from their wounds that haven't yet healed, they wandered knee-deep in icy water for many hours with only their stubbornness keeping them upright, and Voryn in the haze of near delirium perceived in their unfavorable surroundings a certain irony. Only an utterly humorless mer would not laugh at his own adversities.

Time didn't exist in the sewers; day or night, it was the same murky air around them and tomb-like silence with now and then a hollow, harrowing wail, and gusts of cold wind which pierced to the bone. When Voryn couldn't walk another dozen paces without stumbling at every step, they found a patch of dry land in the middle of a shallow pool of water and laid a fire on a heap of rags they stole from a dead lich. They undressed to the breeches and piled up their heavy, wet clothes by the fire. Nerevar wrapped the both of them in the only dry, warm cloak they had in their possession and so they sat side by side, chattering with cold and following with their eyes the dark ripples on the glassy surface of a filthy puddle, for many an hour. All the while Alandro stood aloof, staring at them with undisguised envy, but such was his unshakable loyalty to the Hortator that he didn't once complain.

Voryn thought about his family which had gathered round a cozy hearth, engrossed in a quiet conversation, but all of it seemed to him a distant, feverish mirage. He glanced at Nerevar who absent-mindedly drew unfathomable figures with his finger on water, and wondered in a surge of self-doubt if his confession was a flight of his fancy, too. His thoughts were elusive like weightless specks of light dancing on the surface of the underground lake yet never reaching its depths, and he could not catch at one, he could not rest on any one of those silly, bothersome, melancholy reflections.  

"Was I wrong to rely on the Champion of Boethiah?" Nerevar muttered to himself when the silence became unbearable. "How did I know Boethiah would choose a champion in a time like this?"

"And you're not Boethiah's Champion?"

Nerevar threw back his head and his shoulders shook from quiet laughter. "No, Voryn, I'm good at creating impressions, prevaricating without outright lying. I prefer that everyone believes me to be her champion, too, because it does wonders to my reputation. But I never held the famed Goldbrand in my hands. Boethiah often conducts tournaments in her honor-"

"Why do you persist in calling him a woman?"

"I'm not sure what to call Boethiah. Are the Daedric Princes truly female or male in form? I doubt it... But hear me out. I was always attracted by a chance to win a grand melee against the best warriors and sorcerers in the realm, to show my mettle in an unprecedented clash of arms in the most splendid of all arenas. I wanted to test myself against some of the Nirn's most terrific forces... In everything you do, there comes a time when you wonder if you've reached the bounds of your god-given talent; if the pursuit you've chosen brings no challenge or excitement to your life and you slowly wilt away. It may seem foolish or frivolous to you, yet I consider such matters important... But one thought put an end to my aspirations. If I were to die without an heir, what will happen to Resdayn?"

"I didn't suspect you of discretion."

"Perhaps your reproach is well-earned, and I am rash-"

"How can you say you're reckless after you challenge a powerful spawn of Daedric magic without armor and sword?" Voryn felt a surge of vigor and belabored Nerevar harshly. "It isn't your recklessness that I fear. At times I believe that you forget about your own mortality, my lord. You aspire to eclipse your legend, outshine yourself, and that isn't reckless... It's a fevered, well-considered effort on your part. You're afraid that everything you've built is founded on your feats and fame and that if you let yourself rest even for one day, your kingdom will crumble away."

Nerevar was thrown into confusion; he sat with his head down and he clutched at it, his fingers interlaced in the locks of wet, dirty hair, with his whole pose expressing resignation. They flung off their disguises and, seeing into Nerevar's soul, Voryn was made aware of his love for his Hortator with horrifying clarity.   

"You still call me your lord in spite of what I said not even a day ago, in spite of what you've said just now... You're stubborn, Voryn. You insist on such nonsense."

"To tell you the truth, I don't know if you're wrong," the head of House Dagoth went on as if he hadn't heard his Hortator. "I don't wish to dissuade you from your endeavors. I ask you trust my honorable intentions and let me be of service to you. What can't we do together? You want to rid yourself of Galmis? With me at your side you won't need some maps-"

"So now you remembered my request!"

"Of course, I remembered. I thought to bargain with you for my brother's freedom, but I changed my mind when it occurred to me that it was a dishonorable proposal. No, it isn't even the dishonor in it... You never told me why you needed those maps, but your profound mistrust of me is groundless. Have I not proven my loyalty to you many times?"

"If you insist on giving me wise council, what will you say if I told you that I suspect Galmis of conspiring with Almalexia and half my court?"

"I was a noble before you even dreamed of unifying Resdayn. I know them. They despise each other more than they despise you. You are an insult to their existence, but they reckon with your effrontery because you're king and the people love you. So they satisfy their greed in endless squabbles and conquests of their neighbors or rivals, justifying their avarice to themselves with noble intentions... Two Houses will reap the benefits of the war with the Dwemer."

"House Hlaalu and Redoran?"

Voryn cupped his hands and conjured between his palms a weak flame. "You're right, my dear Nerevar. These are your offenders, but I assure you that Vilvan and Galmis get along no better than two hungry nix hounds fighting over a dead rat. They would slit each other's throats sooner than conspire to overthrow you." The warmth of the magic fire was soothing, but he extinguished it before it sapped his strength.

"What are you getting at?"

"You deceive yourself, imagining that your enemies are just about to rise against you strong and united. Some House nobles are satisfied with observing the conflict from afar, and they will readily join one side or the other whenever the tide turns. I don't know your queen as well as you, but she's undoubtedly a noble. She avails herself of your confusion. But Azura be my witness when I say that she detests Galmis Hlaalu."

"I thank you for your uplifting speech, Voryn. I hope that it is as you say... I want to hope." Nerevar shook the cloak off his shoulders, and in the soft light of the fire to Voryn's eyes was exposed a long, coarse scar which the Hortator received in the battle at the Red Mountain. He was perturbed by a dim remembrance of walking across a sea of mud bestrewn with corpses, calling for his Hortator, and the dread that they would not escape the sewer alive came over him again.

Nerevar helped him put on his worn-out festive robe which had dried out by then, and there was a particular tenderness in the light touch of his fingers which now lingered on his thin bare shoulders, now slid down his arms. Was Nerevar flirting with him in such a dreadful place? But in spite of his confusion, Nerevar's unassuming, absent-minded flirtation evoked Voryn's smile and he banished all thoughts of death from his mind.

Alandro Sul who had tactfully left during their conversation returned with a meager catch: a bony fish and a large rat. Voryn bluntly refused to eat the rat and Nerevar shared it with his shield-bearer while he partook of a fish which smelled and tasted like sewage, praying to Azura that he wouldn't catch a serious illness. The fire attracted attention of a decrepit skeleton who tried to sneak up to them, but no sooner had they heard the rattling of the old bones than Alandro rushed to seize his spear, eager to redeem himself in the eyes of his Hortator for the earlier display of cowardice. His spear struck swiftly and without mercy, through the skeleton's hollow chest. The undead warrior carried with him a dull Nordic blade with a rusty trollbone tower shield, and Nerevar took the shield with him, leaving the sword with its rightful owner. While Alandro Sul looted the remains, Voryn spotted a dirty medallion around the skeleton's neck and tore it off, wiping away the thick rust and filth with the sleeve of his robe. A silver emblem with a pair of spears depicted crosswise showed through the rust and other markings of age and Voryn gave the medallion to the Hortator who affirmed his suspicions that it belonged to one of the thirty honorary guards appointed to the Resdayn rulers by the High King of Skyrim. Almalexia exiled them from Mournhold, but they offered a fierce resistance and were overwhelmed in the streets by the queen's adherents. It was a valiant but doomed effort. They were slaughtered one by one or fled into the sewers which, as Voryn now saw with his own eyes, became their grave, but he, in spite of the seeming irrelevance of the oddity, hid it in his pocket, vowing to himself to give it to a collector of suchlike curious relics.

After the insipid meal, they went deeper into the intricate labyrinth of the waterways, but they didn't get far before they encountered a considerable obstacle in their path: in front of them was a massive rusty door of Dwemer craftsmanship with a crank and enclosed it from all sides solid stone walls. When Nerevar gave a tug at the crank, a muffled clanking of heavy chains was heard from under the floor, but after some time, the crank, with the slightest creak, turned on its own and the chains in the indivisible mechanism were set loose. Voryn lit a small light above his head and out of gloom emerged a sunken corner with a wide hole in the floor, but the illumination was too scarce to penetrate into the depths of the cold, stagnant water. To all appearances the parts of the elaborate mechanism have been submerged under water for some time. Nerevar sent his shield-bearer into the gap to investigate the mechanism, and the youth unquestioningly jumped into the underground stream, his face lighting up with heart-rending unreserved joy. Voryn protected him insofar as he could with a few spells of his invention, but he hesitated to expend all of his strength, feeling hopelessly the onset of fever.  

"Are you worried about bloodlines, Nerevar?" He said thoughtlessly. "A Chimer clings to the purity of his bloodline. Nothing warms his heart more than the illusion of his family's descent from prophet Veloth. Even in the name of our people there is pretentious allusion to royalty... In our previous conversation you told me that Almalexia won't give you the heir. And if you openly declare your affection to me, won't it make matters worse?"

"I won't openly declare anything. All will happen behind closed doors of my bedroom, in strict confidence. If such conditions are adverse to your honor, I'll understand your doubts... And it is important that I say it now. I don't want you to think that I am ashamed of your company. No, I'd be delighted to make such a declaration."

"It is adverse to my honor to sneak around like a thief at night, but for you I'll bear the dishonor."

"It's not as awful as you think-"

"I've heard enough platitudes, Nerevar. It is how it should be. I'll sacrifice my honor for you, but do not make light of my sacrifice." Nerevar was displeased with his retort and his scowl deepened, yet Voryn felt a sense of relief when he unburdened his mind, when he confessed to his Hortator his innermost fears.

Alandro climbed out of the icy rill, quivering from head to toe, and explained to them in an apologetic tone that he had found the lever, but a heavy rock weighed down against it and he couldn't move it. Voryn helped him move the stone, but the longer he sustained his spells, the weaker he became in the knees and when the Dwemer mechanism gave in, he couldn't stand upright and seated himself on the wet floor. His mind went dim and blurry shadows danced before his eyes. His forehead was burning. In a moment of clarity, he asked Nerevar to lay him down on the tower shield, and the Hortator honored his desperate request, covering him with a cloak.  

"Don't worry about me," whispered Voryn.

Nerevar squatted down abreast of him and between his palms a bright spark blazed up, illumining his haggard face. He never had the talent for healing arts or the discipline to foster that talent, and the spell was altogether quite weak, but Voryn pressed the Hortator's palm to his chest in an uprush of gratitude. He knew Nerevar wouldn't abandon him, and such confidence was comforting to him but thrilling, unfamiliar.

...For many hours after, Voryn now woke fleetingly, now lapsed into oblivion and it seemed to him that the bleak scenery slid by him, vision-like: waterways with breaches in the ceiling through which pale light pervaded the air, caves with natural walls, latticed ducts and a half-sunken colonnade. Nerevar and Alandro Sul carried him on the shield, but at times Voryn was under the impression that he was on a ship, sailing into the darkness, and gentle waves lulled him to sleep, or that he was the ship, sinking.

He awoke at long last when four menacing-looking hooded and cloaked figures barred their way and he heard Nerevar arguing with them in heated tones; one was a Khajiit with a lisp and on both sides of him stood an Orc and two Chimer. The Khajiit spoke in a slow and unfriendly manner while the Orc shouted his response sharply, and Nerevar was losing presence of mind. Then the Khajiit waved his arm irritably and they followed after him into a cave which was dotted with ladders leading to the small, cozy hollows in the walls, clustered like fruit on boughs. A large fire burnt by a pile of wicker bins and around it were scattered expensive carpets, golden and silver carafes, magic scrolls, old tomes, and Dwemer artifacts: pipes, goblets, cogs laid out in fanciful patterns around a mangled centurion spider. It was sheer misfortune that they walked into a den of thieves and smugglers where even the king of all Resdayn couldn't expect a warm welcome.

They descended the stone staircase and were surrounded by a wall of men and mer in dark attire. Nerevar helped Voryn rise to his feet and held him up with one hand, but he stubbornly refused to part with his spear which was threateningly pointed at the quiet Khajiit.

"I'm king of all Resdayn and you'll give me and my retinue proper accommodations," the Hortator said darkly.

"And I'm that Mephala priest from High Temple," rang from the crowd together with loud, gusty laughter. "Who's to say you're not a lying fish?"

"I order you-"

"Your orders mean nothing here, surface mer," said the Khajiit who wielded some authority among the thieves. "Turn back and forget your way here, or blood will be spilled tonight."

"What if he's king or some other House noble? I say we kill him and rid ourselves of his stench."

"Does he look like a king to you, Kish? Some riffraff lost in the sewer or an outlaw..."

"My friend and loyal servant is gravely injured," said Nerevar in harsher tones, glancing disdainfully round himself. "I demand shelter, food and a guide... Or will you persist in challenging my authority? Do you think you're worthy of my title? Well, the legend of Nerevar says that an apprentice of the Chief Tonal Architect made him a ring and Nerevar called it Moon-and-Star. Moon and Star had a peculiar significance to him... or I should say, it signified something to me. I am Nerevar and this ring proves my words!" The Hortator raised his hand and on his palm a small precious stone shone brightly. "What is there to fear if you're convinced I am a liar? Grant me my final wish and wear it if you dare."

Voryn heard many sinister legends about Nerevar's ring, but he dismissed them from his mind as fable. The glint of the jewel in the shape of a star mesmerized, but there was nothing otherworldly or frightful about it save for the confidence with which the Hortator held it high above his head for all the thieves and rogues to see.

"Azura told me I would be known in Resdayn by this ring," Nerevar went on. "If anyone other than me puts it on his finger, he will die. Acknowledge me as your king and I give you my word that for three days no guard will set foot in the sewer."

"What's in it for us?"

"A king doesn't bargain with thieves. If you're clever, a city guard won't find you and you'll escape with your life and loot."

"It's not a fair deal." The Khajiit threw off the hood, fearlessly showing them a scarred face with deep-set bright-blue eyes, framed in a white beard. "If you want to leave your wounded friend in our care, you'll have to pay us handsomely. We'll go, but we need something for our troubles. Your earrings, necklaces, bangles... all your jewelry that isn't enchanted. We're suspicious of enchantments. If you're royalty, you can spare a few coins for the poor."

Kish - a weak-looking man of small stature with a rascally face - boldly stepped out of the crowd and lifted up both of his arms, calling for silence.

"Daro'Zah, you let them deceive you," he said, solemn of aspect. "Do I speak the truth? You see a small piece of metal and you run with your tail between your legs. I say you're a lying fish, stranger. Give me your ring, and I'll wear it proudly and spit our Mother Whore between her eyes."

"Blasphemer," muttered Daro'Zah.

Voryn, with trembling hands, took off his ruby ring and a hair decoration from pure gold and offered them to the thief, but Kish was determined to embarrass his leader in front of other thieves. He snatched the ring from Nerevar's palm and slipped it on his finger, smiling unattractively and with a kind of smugness by which an ambitious but witless man could be recognized. He was making lewd gestures towards the ceiling when from the corners of his eyes, from his mouth and nose, blood flowed in thin trickles. Kish tried to rid himself of the deadly ring, but his finger swelled up and out of a sense of profound mercy Daro'Zah drew an axe and cut off his wrist. If only Azura's curse could be fooled in such a crude way! With a tremulous wail, the unfortunate thief stumbled out of the crowd and fell stiffly down, cradling the injured hand to his breast. Kish gasped out his life whilst Nerevar stooped over his body, groping about for the ring, and the goddess's gift slid off his finger, untainted by the spilled blood in which the severed hand was soaked. The Hortator turned pale momentarily at the sight of a face disfigured terribly by magic beyond his comprehension, but when he stood up, there was not a trace of hesitation about him and his clear eyes put the Khajiit out of countenance.

The crowd expressed conflicting sentiments: some thieves were dispirited and quiet while others bent their knees, their eyes shining with superstitious wonder, but no one spoke against the Hortator again. 'Poor wretch, he insulted the Princes for the last time,' a whisper was heard, but the shuffling of many feet, the coughing and groaning in the thinning crowd drowned it out.

Daro'Zah didn't appear upset by the gruesome death of one of his thieves. He invited them to climb one of the ladders which led into a small, dry cavern with a hammock, a low wooden stool and a writing desk, empty and uninviting. Nerevar got Voryn to lie down and he wearily closed his eyes for what seemed only a moment, but when he opened them, a candle was lit on the desk and the Hortator sat on the stool, eating saltrice porridge from an earthen bowl. Voryn couldn't remember how much time had passed, and all seemed to him fleeting and unimportant. The Hortator was missing his favorite earrings, but he thought little of it, overcome wholly with unbidden fascination with the scene - the candle flinging off pale light, the shadows, the smell of porridge and earth abounded in mysteries he couldn't comprehend. He called for Nerevar and he took his hand and whispered something into his ear in his assured, pleasant voice, but Voryn didn't hear him. He couldn't stifle an innermost impulse to tell the Hortator everything unreservedly, unwisely. "I'm frightfully in love with you, Nerevar," he kept on saying with complete abandon, besotted by happiness and fever, and, still more quietly, scarcely breathing, hurriedly: "I wanted to tell you for a long while that I loved you, and now I'm free of that burden."

Nerevar leaned over the hammock and impressed a light kiss upon Voryn's brow. "I'll send someone for you, don't trouble yourself, but till then I'll leave Alandro Sul with you. I'll be a fool to trust these rascals... Get well, old friend. Don't think silly thoughts and get well." He stepped away from the bed and added with great feeling, "And, please, eat something. You have a fever."

'I asked you to abandon me not so long ago,' thought Voryn, 'but now I do not want to leave your side. Maybe I'm too ill to think anything sensible.'

The saltrice porridge tasted like the imaginary fruit of Aetherius and whilst he ate greedily, Nerevar watched him with an affectionate smile.

Voryn didn't have a memory of falling asleep again, but when he came to his senses and asked for water, Alandro Sul told him that the Hortator left them in a hurry.  

***

After he parted with Voryn, Nerevar demanded from Daro'Zah a guide who would lead him through the sewer to the palace. The Orc knew the web of tunnels like Nerevar knew the streets of Mournhold and soon they climbed out of a dirty, stinking hole onto the back alley and saw amidst the stars the many-tier roofs of the palace towers. It was that uncertain hour of the night when murk is impenetrable and stars begin to lose their luster in Azura's shadow, but the illusive Serpent was still visible upon the firmament in all its beauty. Why did it come, unbidden? What did it wish to say? Nerevar couldn't take his eyes off them - the wandering ghostly lights revealed to him with a rush of cold, fresh wind which blew away weightless clouds. Voryn was born when Serpent outshone all other constellations on a day when winter met spring, and everything as though conspired by some whim of fate to remind the Hortator of him. All thoughts of him were sweet, distracting.

But the Hortator sobered up when he saw the plaza dotted with fires and a row of Dwemer warriors with mortars keeping vigil at the palace gate alongside Indoril guard.

"Who goes there?" Asked a stalwart Dwemer when a dirty, ragged figure approached him, his hand on the hilt of his sword.

"Nerevar," was his impatient reply.

The captain of the palace guard recognized him and spared the Hortator the humiliation of waiting by the gate until someone would call for the queen or one of the Tribunes. He expressed modestly his joy on seeing the king unharmed and added that the 'esteemed Councilors' gathered in the throne room, arguing with 'deplorable obstinacy', and that the palace was in disarray for which he was prepared to accept punishment. A servant threw a long, warm cloak around Nerevar's shoulders, but he didn't notice it or hear a startled cry, 'The king returned! The king is alive!' which echoed loudly in the empty hallways. Another servant brought a torch, though the palace was alight with brilliant magelights and astir, but to the handmaidens and House nobles alike passed the Hortator's wild agitation and they aspired to gain favors with him. They talked, interrupting each other brazenly, and from them Nerevar heard one piece of wild news after another until he grew tired of their senseless blabber and ordered them to keep silence.

The throne room was vast and dreary in spite of tapestries or statues in the niches, or an enormous chandelier from gold and ebony which hung from the ceiling on an almost invisible thread, and the Hortator rarely received guests or petitioners there, explaining his reluctance with lack of affinity to the statues. On both sides of the elegant thrones for the royal couple stood in eternal greeting two sculptures of Almalexia's ancestors and at their feet were scattered luminous coda flowers. But to Nerevar they were foreign people from a distant time with whom he didn't have a common ancestry; whose spirits were proud of their superiority and silent in their condemnation of him. He was an upstart in their eyes, an insult to their existence.

As the doors to the throne room were flung open, bright light burst through the chink and Nerevar saw Almalexia on the throne in gold and black and around her swarmed members of the First Council - all except Voryn and the head of House Dres. Instead of Favela, the Dres Council sent a gaunt old mer with a roguish face who appeared to pay no heed to the ruckus, but the Hortator couldn't shake off an impression that nothing escaped the unblinking stare of his dull, watery eyes. Galmis Hlaalu called him, derisively, a 'gaudy antiquity'.

Almalexia, in compliance with etiquette, rushed towards him with an expression of genuine concern and pressed her lips to his palm, but the reason for her pleasant behavior soon revealed itself. On the wooden chairs aloof from the House nobles, sat Dumac and Kagrenac, quietly conversing amongst themselves. Kagrenac was politely indifferent, but with his pose and manners he expressed what he would not show on his countenance - a condescension towards foolish, artless, young races. Dumac neatly braided his beard and eagerly smiled at one noble and the other, taking delight in suchlike ruses, but beneath his good-humored facade was concealed a ruthless and pragmatic nature. Nerevar often marveled at the fragility of their alliance; till this day he didn't know whether Dumac understood the question Vivec and he posed to the illustrious assembly of Dwemer Architects or he was amused by the attempts of two barefaced Chimer youths to challenge the foundation of Logic itself and gave in, impulsively, to that amazement.

"Why isn't our Lord High Councilor with you?" Asked the Dwemer king. "And where on earth have you been?"

Nerevar wearily lowered himself on the throne and gave the nobles in the room a heavy look. "Voryn was gravely injured, but he's alive. That is all you should know. And I... it's unimportant now. We have other matters to discuss... What happened in my absence?"

"We were wrong, Nerevar," said Almalexia. "Sotha Sil suspected that someone wanted to kill you or me, but we were egregiously wrong. They wanted that pitiful creature and they found her... in her prison in Sil's dwelling."

"All that distraction... to take back the creation of Molag Bal's foul magic? And Azura's Star... where is the Star? Don't tell me they stole it, too!"

"Don't worry about the soul gem, I have it with me," assured him Sotha Sil.

"How many are dead?"

"No, my lord, it isn't what we should be discussing at present. What are we to do about Molag Bal? He boldly opens the gate in Mournhold-"

"And that is why, my lords, I need to hear Almalexia's story. My queen, if you would go on."

"We hurried to the palace, but on the bridge the Daedra ambushed us. When we reached the plaza, a terrified guard told us that a woman led a dozen xivilai and golden saints through the underground waterways and slaughtered everyone in her path, servants and guards alike. I guessed it was Dinara Dres... We looked for her for an hour or so, but as ill luck would have it, she vanished. We sent for you, too, but the guard didn't come back and we assumed he was dead. We held council. Vivec suggested we return to the Arena because he was worried that you were wounded, but instead of you we found that colossal Daedra faithfully guarding the gate to Oblivion in spite of its severe injuries. I killed it with my Hopesfire."

"Then Dumac arrived," added Vivec, "and he helped us hunt down the stray Daedra. But citizens of Mournhold are scared, my king! Therefore, we had gathered together on Almalexia's initiative to decide how to protect the city from Molag Bal."

"I told them, Nerevar, that we can't defend Mournhold without you-"

"And we never considered abandoning Nerevar to his fate." Vivec made an exasperated gesture. "Esteemed Dumac, we merely suggested that our king is a warrior of great renown, but many people would perish if we were to allow such a beast to run rampant in the city."

"I would appreciate the opportunity to speak without interruptions, young Vivec. You're in the right to say that the people of Mournhold are frightened, but the absence of their king frightens them more than the legions of Daedra! It goes without saying that the misfortune of my allies pains me no less than any ordeal of my people."

While his Councilors argued and harangued, Nerevar sat by Voryn's bed, having forgotten that he was king or that he had an obligation to the people of Mournhold, and nothing was more important to him than to hear his friend's light breath. The Hortator wrapped himself tightly in a cloak, feeling ill at ease, and the wet, filthy attire bothered him least of all. All that was said between them preoccupied him wholly, and the heated disagreements among the members of the First Council seemed to him petty beside Voryn's declaration of candid, passionate devotion.

"Vivec, Dumac, I returned and we won't speak another word of it." Nerevar rose from the throne and, dragging the cloak across the floor, addressed the nobles. "Did anyone order to close the gates of Mournhold?"

"It's futile, my king," remarked Almalexia. "The culprits escaped through the underground tunnels which likely lead outside the city. Such measures will only invoke displeasure of some dignitaries."

"And the mayhem caused by Molag Bal's servants who play the master in Mournhold doesn't displease those dignitaries? But no matter! Will anyone deny that we must outlaw the cult of Molag Bal and demand the surrender of his artifacts whose possession from this day onward will be punishable by law?"

"The queen suggested something similar, but some of us find it a bit extreme to punish anyone in possession of a Daedric artifact."

"The queen can speak for herself, my lords," said Almalexia proudly. "No one here, being of sound mind, suggests a punishment for scholars or adventurers, or collectors of suchlike curiosities. Only those who have dangerous artifacts which are commonly attributed to Molag Bal will be required to surrender them."

"And what constitutes a 'dangerous artifact', my lady? A sharp quill can be dangerous in the hands of a skilled and ruthless assassin. Will this Council approve of something so distasteful, barbaric and superstitious as seizure of all quills from the population of Mournhold? All Daedric artifacts are inherently dangerous!" Cardea, who to the knowledge of many present in the throne room amassed a sizable collection of Daedric oddities, voiced her objection. "Wabbajack, Goldbrand, Sanguine Rose... with any of these relics you can inflict a mortal injury, but does it mean that everyone will ignorantly use them for so destructive a purpose?"

"And you're content with turning our home into a public thoroughfare for Daedric Princes?" Galmis Hlaalu was outraged.

"I said no such thing! I beg you for a different solution, esteemed lords."

"Should we believe that your words aren't motivated by personal interest? It's common knowledge that all members of House Telvanni dabble in forbidden, sacrilegious magics. Perhaps you even aided the Prince of Rage in his endeavor to invade Mournhold!"

"Silence, my lords!" Shouted Nerevar. "I demand silence!" The clamor of aggrieved and discontented voices died down, and Nerevar contrived to conclude his speech uninterrupted. "There will be a sitting in two days and we will thoroughly discuss our predicament again. In two days I expect to hear from you, Cardea, and from Sotha Sil. Prove to me that the traitors didn't use the mace of Molag Bal to open a gate to Coldharbor and I will relent, but in the meantime, I want a herald to announce my decision to the city of Mournhold. All relics of the Daedric Prince of Enslavement must be brought to the palace in two days' time... And, for Azura's sake, find me one of those nude dancers! I want to know the meaning of their odd dance."

The guard shut the doors behind him, and the Hortator leaned against a windowsill to recover his breath. He was awfully tired, and he longed for a warm bath and a comfortable bed, but he doubted he would get a good sleep that morning or the following night.

In the milky haze of early winter morning, the skylamps of Mournhold blinked tremulously.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear I will in one of the chapters write how Chimer celebrate their chil'a but it won't be this time :P
> 
>  _shabrack_ \- horse-cloth (well, guar-cloth in this case)  
>  _Daedric Titans_ \- as ESO wiki states that there exists some evidence to suggest that Titans were seen on Tamriel before Planemeld, I decided not to invent my own creature and use the already existing one for this chapter  
>  _The Serpent_ \- I was undecided about Voryn's birth sign for a long time, and my decision is largely inspired by Vralaka's beautiful headcanon. Thank you for sharing it with me :3


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started practicing martial arts which in hindsight proved to be addictive and I was dead to the world for a little bit, sorry :) But I hope the lengthy chapter will make up for that xD  
> 

** Chapter 10: Arena Supermundus **

In the days following Molag Bal’s incursion into Mournhold, thick, chilly fog crept over the city. It settled upon the bazaar, hanging low over the gray expanse of the river, and scattered in ghostly-white wisps above the barren fields, and the sleepless silhouettes, the uncertain shapes and lights faded into the murk, assuming the likeness of restless ghosts. After the herald publicly announced the Hortator’s decision, the guard of House Indoril went around the city, and when the townspeople heard the heavy, even tread, they hid in their homes and many a white face watched from the window as rows of Chimer cased from head to toe in steel vanished in the fog. The cozy narrow squares, the quay, the vast stone staircases and flowerbeds under the tall mushroom trees – favorite places where citizens of Mournhold would gather on an ordinary day to gossip about rumors from Vvardenfell and colorful lives of their neighbors – were deserted. The bright-lit windows of merry taverns and alehouses dimmed or were snuffed out, adding to the overall impression of desolation. The city of Mournhold wasn’t brought to its knees, but, preparing for battle, it succumbed to fear and the unordinary mist appeared to all eyes its otherworldly manifestation. 

In uncertain times Chimer, in a fit of religious fervor, frequented secluded shrines and temples so as to appease the anger of their ancestors with lavish offerings and beg for their protection. No one loved their gods more ardently than Chimer in a time of need and, though deeply selfish, their love was spectacular and gaudy in its outward expression. It was customary to leave precious stones, herbs and bread on the altars, but some Chimer didn’t confine themselves to traditional offerings. They stripped their houses of statues, vases, paintings, carpets and furniture, loaded them on guar-drawn carts and left them by the temple gates to the great annoyance of priests who didn’t know where to keep these massive decorations. The quick-witted and dauntless priests broke temple rules and it wasn’t uncommon to spot a Dwemeri cabinet encrusted with an Indoril coat of arms in possession of a street merchant or an exquisite vase from Summerset Isles decorating a dwelling of a lowly retainer.

But many Chimer, though they believed staunchly in might and benevolence of their ancestors, favored cautiousness and pragmatism over foolhardy bravery. They stocked up on cheap spells and scrolls and diligently cast them on their doors and windows – one in every five doorways bore traces of an intricate magical figure which served thieves and bandits as a warning. It never occurred to them that the wards would protect them from an occasional impudent pilferer, but they were powerless against the dreadful Daedra of Oblivion. And useless as they were, cheap enchantments often started fires, but greed is an irrational force, a disease which afflicts the poor and the rich, the noble and the ignoble, the Ashlander and the city mer.

A faulty enchantment caused a fire in the poor district of Mournhold which abounded in wooden hovels and whilst the guards and townsfolk poured buckets of water on the blazing straw roof, whilst a breathless youth begged a Telvanni mage to call forth a storm, the vigilant watchmen found a ragged fellow who drew on the walls of his ramshackle hut odd figures and symbols, muttering incoherent words to himself, and dragged the poor wretch to the city prison. The Telvannni sorcerer intervened on behalf of a harmless servant of Sheogorath, and the watchmen released him, but a few hours later he was found beaten to death near the empty arena. A zealous guard mistook a half-naked Nord, who vehemently claimed that a cunning witch had robbed him, for a servant of Molag Bal and realized his blunder when he took his prisoner to the Hortator. Only few surrendered their Daedric artifacts without resentment, but such acts of obedience neither assured nor gladdened Nerevar.

The Hortator listened to the news, drank tea with Dagoth brandy, peered into the fog with inexplicable melancholy, feeling at a loss but expressing none of his confusion. “I assure you all is as we have foreseen it,” he lied, smiling, exchanged solemn bows and, with a terrible sinking feeling, waited for a messenger or a note from Voryn. Almalexia, in a fit of generosity which the Hortator found odd, ordered the priests to hand out food and money for the poor and he let her be, observing her from afar through the eyes of loyal servants. Sotha Sil locked himself in his cave, incensed at the thought that insolent intruders dared play the master in his most secret and sacred of dwellings, and refused to see anyone. Vivec was all in a dither, rushing about the palace and meeting with many dignitaries from the Great Houses, but their paths crossed seldom and it seemed to Nerevar that the youngest Tribune purposefully avoided him.

Then the Ashlanders arrived.

They poured through the gates – wiry men and women in ornamental furs and headwear, with rosy tattooed cheeks and brilliant eyes – and were at once surrounded by the guards who treated them in a condescending manner. Many tribe leaders and wise women came to the Council sitting, but only four of them were allowed to take part in it. Ashkhan Dun-Ilu of Ahemmusa was among them and Tamal of Kumanishapu and it would be their duty to announce to the rest of the tribes the decisions of the Council and make sure they adhere strictly to those decisions. In a matter of hours, across the entire span of the inner courtyard a multitude of dark tents sprung up, fires were lit and a quiet music of a bamboo flute was wafted to the sentries’ ears. In spite of the fear which took hold of Mournhold, in spite of the innate hostility and mistrust between the Ashlanders and the settled Chimer, the guards didn’t harass the lone player and he played, fierce and unafraid, far into the night.

On the day of the Council sitting, Nerevar was roused from his sleep when it was still dark and at once received Renam Indoril – a petty Councilor who was brave or foolish to deliver him the will of House Indoril. He looked at Nerevar with a sense of unchallenged superiority and, seating himself on the chair, said:

“In troubled times, we always asked our ancestors for help and House Indoril believes that we should appeal to them urgently… and we surely – as surely as our House is to rule Chimer another thousand years – do not expect any objection from you, but we find you uniquely inapt for the task. Please, understand our predicament! Our ancestors are capricious and proud and they will not answer the call of someone who wasn’t born an Indoril noble. We do not wish to say that your ancestry isn’t splendid in its own way, but in our House you’re an outsider. It is therefore our humble request that the queen performs the summoning ritual. It’s a rather… delicate matter.”

“I’ve defended our realm from the Nords,” objected Nerevar, “I’ve done your ancestors proud and you still dare call me an outsider! What nonsense!”

“It’s not how our ancestors see it. You did your ancestors proud! And it’s unwise to anger them lest they wreak terrible vengeance on the offenders… You must remember the story of Balreth and Sadal. It was during your war with the Nords – how timely you reminded me of it!”

Renam was implacable and in spite of his eloquence, Nerevar had to make concessions, but he didn’t forgive the Councilor’s churlishness – it wasn’t in the Hortator’s habit to forget however paltry an insult. Almalexia was beside herself with joy when she heard that he conceded. She glanced meaningfully at Vivec with whom she kept company quite often as of late, but Nerevar didn’t perceive anything off-putting in Vivec’s flustered manners or Almalexia’s toneless greeting, though the eyes of a stranger would keenly descry their affectionate gestures. We often lose sharpness of insight with those we had known the longest; our mind is easily lulled into a false sense of immutability until the day our convictions are shattered and our illusions fade.

Dressed in long white robes, seven figures descended into the Indoril crypts deep beneath the Mournhold palace, carrying candles, magelights and incenses. In front of an ornate reinforced door they stopped in profound veneration and asked their ancestors a silent permission to enter. Behind the door was a vast room with a vault ceiling, impressive for its remarkable sense of proportion, empty, bleak and poorly-lit. An expansive mosaic which depicted a woman resting in the coils of a giant snake covered the floor. Its magnificent forms seemed wasted on the dead spectators who stared idly from their niches in the walls which accommodated two or three small urns in each, but the crypt teemed with unseen, unearthly life whose presence was felt in a breath of cold wind, in the even quivering of candle fire. In the farthest corner of the vault stood an altar bathed in faint light, with a bowl, a skull and a tall urn upon it. Almalexia immersed her hands into the ebony chalice filled with clear water, shook the droplets from her fingers and uttered a few words in Velothi language, spreading wide her arms and raising her head aloft. Nerevar knelt on the floor behind her, but he didn’t understand what the queen said; the words were brusque, old, unmeaning to all save for the oldest of Wise Women or passionate Temple archivists. Above the chalice appeared a tall shadow of a broad-shouldered Chimer warrior in ceremonial armor. The colors of his lavish attire had faded and the intricate adornments appeared blurred, but the warrior carried himself with authority which didn’t diminish with the passing of time, his head and shoulders habitually unbowed.

“Why have you summoned me?” He asked them in a surprisingly gentle voice, but his burning eyes were fastened on Almalexia alone. Nerevar felt a surge of spite towards the proud spirit who didn’t fail to remind him that he was an outsider adopted into the House, undeserving of his attention, but the Hortator’s anger was tempered by his reverence of ancestors.

“I came to seek advice, ancient one,” answered the queen, smiling tensely. “We heard many a story about your valiant determined opposition to the evils of the bad Daedra. Now our city is in peril once more.”

“And you come to the dead for aid! Why don’t you bother the living with your endless questions? Let me rest in peace…”

“And in peace you shall rest, venerable ancestor. But I must ask you for your council before I will let you pass through the Waiting Door. I begged for your wisdom when the Nords ravaged my city, yet you kept silent. I won’t plead again, nor will I do nothing whatever.”

A mournful sigh passed the lips of an old spirit. “Very well, ask your questions, sera, lest I’ve been awoken pointlessly,” he said and shook his head, the plume on his helmet swaying dolefully.

“Molag Bal, the Prince of Brutality… I want to know how to defeat him.”

“Alas, we never clashed against him, but Mehrunes Dagon… yes, him we overcame, if you wish to call it a victory. My body is dust and with it, my injured vanity. We only delayed him; the victory was hollow and without triumph.”

“I prefer even a hollow victory to a bitter defeat,” said Almalexia firmly.

“You wouldn’t be so convinced, sera, if you witnessed our sacrifice – the act so noble yet foreordained to fail. But enough of this! So few things mean anything in death… I cannot tell you how to fight your foes, but I can retell you a long-forgotten tale of how we fought ours.”

***

“…It’s still unclear to me what my venerated ancestor tried to tell us – his tale was awfully cryptic,” said Almalexia later, leafing through the pages of a rare book. “In spite of Renam’s hopes, little was revealed to us. Daedric Princes are incomprehensible! Well, I didn’t have to talk to a musty spirit to hear that trivial bit of knowledge.”

“I wish you were more respectful in your attitude towards our ancestors, my queen,” muttered Nerevar.

The three of them, with Vivec lolling lazily between the royal couple, rested on the embroidered cushions scattered round a low table upon which a ghalyan smoked unheeded. It was polite to take an occasional puff from the ghalyan which contained an aromatic mix of herbs and moon sugar, but none of them were in a hurry to partake from the ornate glass vessel with an ebony shaft in the shape of a graceful snake. It was unusual to request a ghalyan and not share it with the rest of the interlocutors, but it was an unusual day and breaches in prescribed etiquette were forgiven.

“He suggested a willing sacrifice! What is more abhorrent to a Daedric Prince than a sincere, selfless sacrifice? What absurdity!” Almalexia exclaimed with burning indignation.

“In all fairness, he warned us that we might not like his answer.”

“You have ill sense of humor, Nerevar… To know that some of my ancestors are cowards is unbearable. What they’ve done contradicts all teachings of Boethiah. The Prince taught us to persevere against all odds not to bow down to fate, to find comfort in cultivating a strong will… And they’ve forsaken it all!”

“Ayem, you’re upset. The Council sitting is in a few hours-”

“These are my ancestors, Vivec! A disgraceful bunch…” Almalexia rose from the cushions. “We’ll fight Molag Bal. We’ll meet his horde in a clash of arms, slay his most loyal servants, forbid his worship, stifle the seed of his corruption in its womb. Is it not enough? I refuse to believe it!”

“Have you heard the news?” The Hortator said morosely. “Molag Bal is cunning and deceitful. In brutality, he rivals Mehrunes Dagon, in cruelty Sheogorath; he is vengeful like Malacath and licentious like Sanguine. Uprooting all pernicious Daedra worship from Mournhold, you’ll drown the city in blood. Is Sil truly our only hope?”

“You make a terrible advocate of caution. Did age dull your acumen?”

Vivec leaped to his feet, blushed, but thought better of making a scene and reluctantly sat down.

“You’re forgetting about me,” he said. “I may not be vainglorious, and Mephala enjoys a spider’s obscurity, but to discount her role in this confrontation is a fool’s error. Instead of arguing with each other, why haven’t you asked for my advice?”

Almalexia’s hard features gradually unbent. “Well, I’m asking you now, Vehki.”

 “I’ve made some inquiries into who Dinara Dres is and why Molag Bal seems to favor her, if you have the heart to call it ‘favor’… In the morning I received a report from one of my most trusted and loyal spies. She had to ride four guars to the death to bring me her findings on time.”

“And why are we hearing about it now?”

“When you asked me to find you a suitable replacement for the Grandmaster of House Dres, I began to wonder why Favela was allowed to maintain her position even after rumors spread that she was suffering from witbane. But I find a great many things suspicious. Why did duke Melen urgently send for his mistress before breakfast? Isn’t it suspicious? But I thought nothing of it at the time and it was my mistake. There’s quite the story to it.” Vivec sprawled comfortably on the cushions, taking delight in having all the eyes in the room on him. “In my childhood I came to regard witbane as a disease afflicting those who suffer terribly in life. My intuition didn’t fail me. I dug in deep, bribed, threatened and at last I discovered that Favela in her youth caught the eye of Molag Bal. Molag Bal amuses himself with upsetting the purity of our bloodlines, and Dinara is the product of that unnatural union. I’ll leave the rest to your imagination… When Favela’s father learned of the tragedy, he took his own life out of profound sense of shame – a weak, deplorable, egoistical mer! – and Favela bravely took it upon herself to lead and guide her people. She hired a Morag Tong assassin to dispatch everyone who knew that the Lord of Brutality fathered her child, but an Argonian slave escaped her wrath as did a few nobles. There was a rumor that many years later Dinara slaughtered an Argonian family in the Black Marsh to receive Molag Bal’s famed mace. Those were the descendants of Listens-to-Rain who likely knew nothing of their ancestor’s transgressions against House Dres.” Vivec paused, taking a deep puff of the ghalyan. “Kragenmoor forgets nothing, but the nobles reasoned that it was best to keep quiet than bring shame to their House. Favela’s rule was safeguarded by the awful secret. The longer she ran the affairs of House Dres, the more the nobles feared that a revelation of that magnitude would disgrace them… And what became of Dinara? I can but speculate. Perhaps Molag Bal got to her or she turned to Daedric magic, sensing that she didn’t belong in her mother’s court. I don’t deem it important.”

Nerevar rose from the cushions with abruptness which startled his Tribunes and awkwardly put a hand on Vivec’s shoulder instead of embracing him heartily as was his impulse. Vivec turned away to hide his embarrassment, and the Hortator caught a glimpse in him of an odd, wise urchin who held his attention in bygone days.

“It’s, frankly, the best news I’ve heard since chil’a. Accept my profound gratitude, Vivec... All the while I racked my memory, you discovered what I needed to set all aright.”

Almalexia followed Vivec’s example and sharply inhaled the aromatic fumes from the ghalyan, throwing back her head and watching him with rapt attention through the clouds of whitish smoke.

“These are grave findings. I can guess what’s on your mind, Nerevar, but I wish you wouldn’t so eagerly seek political gain in a tragedy,” she said in her usual expressive manner.

“Favela is dead. What’s my pity to a dead woman? And her daughter is my sworn enemy... Your pleas for compassion ring hollow to me.”

“Show compassion for your enemies so that when you find a sword pointed at your chest, they may show compassion for you.”

“I pray to Azura that this day never comes… You wanted to know how we will fight Molag Bal? It’s all clear to me now. Today we will seize control of the Council. House Indoril will stand by me as it always did, and House Dres will bow to our will lest they suffer a humiliation. I suspect they won’t choose to tarnish the honor of their House no matter the severity of our demands.”

“It’s only two Houses out of four,” remarked Vivec jocosely, holding up two fingers.

“If House Telvanni abstains from voting, I’ll need the support of one other Great House – House Dagoth. You may rest assured that I have it.” 

“Why are you so certain that you have it?”

“I had a rather illuminating conversation with the Grandmaster of House Dagoth while we were trapped in the sewers. What came out of it? That’s none of your concern. But I’ve placed my faith in him and I trust that you and I are of one mind... Or should I worry?”

The Hortator exchanged brief smiles with Almalexia and the queen shook her head as if to say that he shouldn’t expect any nasty surprises from her, but he didn’t know what to make of the gesture, nor did he have the time to give it thought, for their conversation was interrupted by a breathless servant who told him that the councilors of House Dres were ready to receive him.

***

Muffled screams startled Voryn out of dreamless slumber.

It demanded all of his strength to cast an intricate healing spell and he was in a deep sleep for more than a day, unheeding and unseeing all around him. He was overcome with bewilderment to say the least of it when he woke up to the uproar of men and mer viciously fighting each other. He frantically outstretched his arm towards the writing desk, but found none of the familiar magical devices on it; he touched his legs, shoulders and neck, and only then did the memories of the last few days rushed into his mind all at once, overwhelming in their vividness, as it often happens after prolonged heavy sleep.

Voryn rose from the hummock, and his shadow came sharply against the merry glimmer of a melting wax candle. He asked Alandro Sul to change the candle every six hours, but it would seem that the young shield-bearer had brazenly abandoned his duties. Fearing the worst, Voryn walked barefoot to the edge of the cavern against which leaned a rough wooden ladder and looked down at the heated fray which now slackened, now grew more ferocious as the front rows of mer in familiar golden and blue colors of House Indoril pressed against a ragtag, uneven line of smugglers and breached it. A stray lightning shattered against the stone behind him and he pressed himself to the cold floor, raising his head a little so that he could still observe the skirmish. Amid the Chimer in armor which scintillated with gold, amid the frenzied warriors waving their bloodied swords, amid the wounded who tried to crawl out of the disorderly melee, Voryn with a keen eye spotted Nerevar’s shield-companion who sprightly and expertly handled a spear against a taller mer.

‘What’s the meaning of it?’ He thought, not hurrying to aid either side.

Daro’Zah emerged from the crowd and yelled something, swinging his arms, but few heard him in the heat of battle and, throwing down their weapons, took flight. The House mer pushed forward with outstanding discipline; they didn’t scatter about, chasing after every escapee, but kept together, quickly surrounding the Khajiit with their spears drawn. Daro’Zah lunged at a stocky Chimer, tossed him on the ground, slitting his throat in one swift and delicate motion, but a guard behind him struck him with the dull end of a spear and the Khajiit fell on his knees. He crawled a few paces as vicious blows rained down on him and sprawled on the stones, covering his head with both hands. The Indoril guard beat him carefully, with deliberation, not to wound him but to discourage him from offering any resistance and brought him, bloodied and bound, before Nerevar’s shield-companion.

Voryn climbed down the ladder, barefoot and scantily dressed.

“Alandro Sul, explain yourself to me,” he said, pushing his way through the crowd of sweaty, tired mer who set about gathering their dead and helping their wounded. “What’s all this bloodshed?”

“Nerevar’s orders,” the youth answered with an air of self-importance about him. “Before he left me with you, he took me aside. ‘My loyal Alandro Sul,’ he said to me, ‘There’s something suspicious about this Khajiit. He’s not an ordinary thief. I ask you to find out for me where he hails from and why he whiles away his time in the sewers.’ Those were his words. I merely acted upon his wishes when his guard arrived to our aid at his behest.”

“This one doesn’t know why the venerable lord suspects this humble thief of dishonesty,” said Daro’Zah, retaining in spite of the severe beating, a modicum of dignity.

“Drop your Khajiit act and speak plainly. Who are you? A spy from Alinor? A base cultist?”

“This one is a humble -”

One of the Chimer who was holding him upright struck him on the jaw with a mailed fist. Daro’Zah spat out blood, but the many scars on his face spoke of his willingness to endure excruciating pain and in his clear eyes smoldered a glint of defiance.

“It’s a folly to persist that you’re just a ‘humble burglar’. The cells underneath the Mourning Hold are dark, cold, narrow and infested with rats. By First Seed, you’ll beg us to listen to your confession.”

“Perhaps he is but a thief,” objected Voryn. “Deep mistrust clouds our Hortator’s judgment. He imagines elaborate plots and schemes instead of seeing this wretched outcast in his true light. Once he had a more honorable occupation, judging by his scars, but he had long since abandoned that way of life.”

 “Do you doubt the Hortator’s wisdom, lord Dagoth?” Alandro Sul asked, looking aghast.   

“It’s not his wisdom that I doubt, but his temper. You’re too young, you won’t understand. Doubts are not signs of disloyalty…” Voryn wrapped himself in a warm blue cloak which Nerevar’s shield-bearer held out to him. “Do you want to know if this Khajiit is lying? There’s an illusion spell. Align five stars with the moons, imagine the gaping hole in the center which takes shape of the Daedric symbol of Oblivion, draw from the everlasting well of Magnus… Do you follow me? Did they teach you how to calculate the position of both moons in your head?”

“Yes, master Dagoth. I’ll do as you instructed me.”

“Good, good… Now ask your questions.”

The Khajiit fell on his knees, making a desperate attempt to outstretch his bound hands towards them in a pleading manner. “Please, don’t cast any hexes on him. This one will tell you everything!.. He belongs to a secret organization whose name he fears to utter because he may lose his life. But he assures the good lord that he is no spy.”

“You’re a liar and a thief -”

“This one understands he does not appear trustworthy to you, but the good lord wants to right a wrong like him,” Daro’Zah added mysteriously. “He was honored to meet the good lord and assist his loyal servants. He won’t say more not to incriminate himself, but he wishes you, serjo, and your Hortator no harm.”

“I knew it! I knew lord Nerevar couldn’t possibly be wrong! He saw right through to the deeps of his scheming mind... Cast your spell, serjo, and let’s put an end to his lies.”

Voryn regretted interposing in the interrogation, seeing what absurd joy it brought Alandro Sul to know that Nerevar was right in his prediction.

“There’s no such spell,” he said harshly. “Our emotions leave no detectable trace in the magical currents of Aetherius. Love spells, truth potions and suchlike sham lost their attraction to proper students of magic long ago... But suddenly it came to me that this Khajiit was afraid of enchantments. Enchanted jewelry is more expensive than simple trinkets, but he refused to accept it from us. Pure superstition!”

“And the spell?”

“Perhaps it would turn him into a mudcrab. I wanted him to believe I was going to use magic on him and he faltered in his determination. He didn’t seem to us afraid inasmuch as he feared foul magic more than a beating. Regrettably, I tricked him.”

Alandro Sul looked disappointed when he told the guards to throw Daro’Zah into prison, but Voryn quickly brought him to his senses, and reminded him that during the Council sitting Nerevar needed their support more than the truth of one Khajiit’s origins. The head of House Dagoth was overcome with dire impatience; he couldn’t stand still for a moment, pacing back and forth and cursing his irredeemable weakness. It was unbearable for him to think that he abandoned Nerevar in time of trouble: no ailment, no wayward chance, no twist of cruel fate could deter him from rejoining with his beloved friend. He longed to be in Nerevar’s arms, to rest his head on Nerevar’s breast, to kiss Nerevar’s lips, to assure him of his love and devotion until there wouldn’t be a shadow of mistrust in his eyes. And the words he said and hadn’t said rang in his ears, unwelcome, unforgiving.

The Chimer gathered their dead and gravely wounded, and, walking alongside them as briskly as he could, Voryn followed them into the intricate maze of the Mournhold gullet.

…On returning to the palace, Voryn scrubbed himself clean and applied magical unguents and perfumes and hair fragrances to banish from his memory the pervasive odor of the sewers, and everything seemed to him wholly orderly and natural again. There was a ruction when he came back, but he explained to his brothers and chap’thil that he was wounded while defending Mournhold, and they begrudgingly accepted his explanation. Vemyn and Odros arrived to the palace in the morning, consumed with worry, but Voryn barely listened to their prattle. And even as they clothed him in a red-and-black ceremonial robe with curved sleeves, heavy pauldrons to accentuate his shoulders, a fur collar and numerous golden embroideries, he paid little attention to the bustle of courtiers before him. The Dwemer clock on the table ticked quietly, reminding him that he had no time to spare.

Voryn’s first visit was to Almalexia. It wasn’t a polite visit of a House noble to his queen, nor was it a friendly visit, and Voryn didn’t know what he’d tell her when he saw her, only that he needed to see her, haughty and reserved like a statue. Gilvoth was right when said that no woman attracted his interest: they were distant to him like a still landscape in a wooden frame; but he didn’t want to tarnish his love for Nerevar with a feeling of guilt, and perhaps he sought assurance from her or he needed to confront her like an accuser longs to confront the condemned. It was an odd inexplicable feeling, like a superstition. He found the queen in her chambers reading, and she was astonished to see him but not altogether displeased. She was dressed in furs and silks, but her hair was gathered in a manner worn around the house and to Voryn she appeared less a statue – warm and familiar, and bright.

“Voryn, to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?” Almalexia asked after they exchanged greetings. “But that can wait… Allow me to express my joy that you returned to us safely. My husband’s love for Resdayn is not as strong as his love for dangerous extraordinary adventures. I apologize on his behalf for putting your life in grave danger, if he never deigns to apologize himself.”

Voryn was tempted to justify Nerevar’s rash action, but it occurred to him, before he said something he couldn’t take back, that the clever queen urged him to unburden his heart to her and he restrained himself.

“I am grateful to my queen for her concern about my health, but we’ve been through worse. I’m happy to bear any pain in defense of our land.”

 “If you’re looking for Nerevar, he’s negotiating with a Dres councilor.” Almalexia turned away in disappointment and resumed reading her book.

“No, my queen, I wanted to talk to you, if you have time to hear me out.”

“Now you've piqued my curiosity. Speak your mind freely, Voryn.”

“After the confrontation in the Arena, we found ourselves in the sewers as you undoubtedly know, my queen. Among the few skeletons we cut down, there was one who wore an amulet with faint traces of magic about it. I daresay you recognize it.” And Voryn gave Almalexia the medallion he tore off from the skeleton’s neck. “Something about it seemed to me familiar. I asked the Hortator if it could be that same amulet…”

“It’s a curious thing… from a distant time even we, Chimer, barely remember. The honorary guard of Mournhold… valiant, honorable and short-lived. I was very young then. Everything was so much clearer…”

“It’s just a trinket, my lady-”

“No, Voryn, do not presume me ungrateful. I see in your eyes a want to confess something to me. Or do you wish to ask me for a favor? Don’t hesitate! I’m predisposed to lending you my ear.”

An absurd thought flashed through Voryn’s mind that he would tell her everything and he imagined how she’d look at him – angry, defeated or indifferent – but the strange feeling passed.

“My queen,” he said, “I want peace. I propose we entrust our fate to Nerevar as we had done in the past. Today let’s be his allies, his faithful servants-”

“Did he send you to chastise me? The audacity of that man!”

“No, I came of my own will. And I would not dare scold a queen… I know he won’t ask for your support out of pride or some other strong sentiment, but I have none to speak of. If the queen expects me to beg, I’ll beg her on his behalf, on behalf of all Mournhold. Give him your vote and let’s be done with it. Our attempts to fight Molag Bal have been easily foiled because each of us acted alone. If all Houses act together, we will uproot his influence from our realm for many years to come.”

“And then what?” The queen exclaimed bitterly. “You don’t understand how Nerevar’s mind works. While your attention is preoccupied with defeating Molag Bal, he thinks of what will happen thirty – no, fifty! – years from now. Everything he does has lasting consequences. Give him my vote… I gave him my vote once. I thought he would defeat the Nords and vanish into obscurity, but when he asked for my vote, sweetly, he set his sights on the throne of all Resdayn.”

The queen was adamant, and Voryn took his leave of her whilst her handmaidens rushed in to clothe her for the Council meeting. He didn’t expect Almalexia to agree with him, but he was convinced that the deep resentment she bore against Nerevar was genuine. And when he met with the Hortator, Voryn kissed him with abandon and whispered sweet senseless assurances into his ear, knowing that in every word they’ve said to each other there was no lie.

***

The First Council met in a large chamber behind the throne room. There were two long tables in it from expensive wood and between them gaped a vast fire pit which heated and illumined the room; the fire was bright and merry, the air stuffy, and the zealous servants now and again threw more aromatic wood into the greedy flames. The chairs were lined up along the side of each table opposite of the fire pit so that the councilors would always face each other, but few found the arrangements of the furniture comfortable. Whilst they spoke, the councilors had to rise from their seats and lift up their voices or anyone sitting at the opposite table wouldn’t hear them. On the back of each chair were engraved the heraldic bearings of the House and the noble family to whom the seat belonged, and each councilor held the title until death relieved him of the burdens and privileges of his position. On a rare occasion a minor House would be invited to participate in the Council gatherings and then a chair with its heraldry would be brought to the table, but on the memory of most participants such honors were bestowed only once on House Mora. House Indoril had the most seats followed by House Dagoth whose Grandmaster was awarded the title of Lord High Councilor and king Dumac who represented the free and independent people of Dwemereth. The Ashlanders had no seats on the Council and they neither demanded nor desired them for as long as Nerevar invited them to the table and resolved their disputes with the House nobles. The only Argonian allowed in the Council chamber was a freed slave by the name of Weewish who spoke many dialects of Aldmeri and translated now for the Ashlanders, now for the Dwemer when they couldn’t understand the nuances of the formal Velothi language in which all important affairs were discussed.  

When the councilors took their seats, the guard left the chamber solemnly and closed all doors so as to warn any careless or insolent intruders against disturbing the sitting. The king and his Tribunes – bedazzling and stern – sat at the table together with the Dwemer, Telvanni and Hlaalu councilors, and opposite of them the rest of the pompous gathering settled in their chairs, arguing quietly among each other. The councilors often vied with each other in extravagance of their rich attires. That year heavy fur collars were in fashion although no one complained that the Council chamber was poorly heated, and Cardea distinguished herself with a lush, embroidered collar so long that it reached her elbows, contrasting with her comely ascetic features, broad shoulders and short hair. It earned her a few jealous and derisive glances and remarks, but she, faithful to her Nordic heritage, didn’t bat an eyelid. Among the Dwemer, Dumac’s armor stood out for the heavy adornments from gold on his breastplate. As darkness came, crimson sheens from the fire pit spattered across the polished plate-armor, and the mighty figure of the Dwemer king appeared soaked in blood.   

The first to speak was the councilor from a minor House who claimed his descendance from Jarls of Skyrim and he explained at length and in vague terms why his House should be granted an honor to sit at the table with the rest of them. It became a tradition. Many small Chimer Houses desired a seat on the Council and for that unattainable privilege they would go to great lengths and stoop to the basest behavior. Every year a dauntless head of one of those unfortunate Houses bribed a few councilors or found favor with them through hardly upright means and put forward his arguments abounding in high-flown phrases and references to obscure laws before an audience disinterested and selfish. The success of House Mora inflamed them, but none could boast of repeating it. After the introduction, Nerevar ceased listening to the monotonous mutter of the elderly Nord and his thoughts drifted away. He glanced to his left where Vivec sat and noticed that his Tribune was preoccupied with sketching something on a piece of paper. He asked Almalexia to move her arm and both of them saw a portrait of the old Nord who was speaking at present with an exaggerated nose, grotesque lips and enormous ears. Nerevar didn’t have the heart to reprimand his assiduous Tribune for the drawing and the three of them quietly laughed.

After a quick and unenthusiastic vote, the indignant Nord was sent away, and Sotha Sil rose from his chair. He looked agitated and pale in a long black robe, and he accompanied his words with rapid gestures.

“Lord Nerevar called me to explain my… findings to the Council,” he muttered quickly, avoiding to look anyone in the eye. “What I found is… troubling. But it’s no easy task to explain it in a straightforward and concise manner. Have you, esteemed Councilors, heard about Arena Supermundus?” He coughed miserably, but his voice no longer quivered. “Do not confuse Arena Supermundus with Nirn which means ‘arena’ in the language of our ancestors. Imagine a wheel – a wheel of a wagon will do – which has eight spokes and sixteen realms or tones, as our esteemed Kagrenac would say. There’s more to this grand arena – sun and constellations and Aetherius – but today I will speak of the vast sea of Oblivion and its sixteen realms. It’s no coincidence to me that our Dwemer colleagues arrived at the same conclusion. And the truth is often less straightforward, as lord Kagrenac would attest. Just as sixteen primary tones may shatter, with mathematical accord, into sixty-four secondary tones, and so on and so forth, there exist pocket realms of Oblivion whose nature had not been thoroughly studied. These small realms attracted my interest.

“It’s not a secret to anyone who devoted time to understanding magical arts that mystic soul energy can be used to animate dead and cast powerful spells. The knowledge of it is not wide-spread. We don’t practice trapping the souls of the living beings and, truthfully, until now many of us deemed it impossible. But Molag Bal’s vile practices had me questioning the foundation of our understanding of the world. What happens to the soul of a living being after it is trapped in a corrupted soul gem? A terrible knowledge, but without it we cannot understand the intentions of the Prince of Rage.”

“Is it… denied Aetherius?” Whispered Cardea.

“A wise conclusion. Without Azura’s Star found in Mzuanch, we wouldn’t know… There is a realm in Oblivion which belongs to no Daedric Prince, and perhaps for that reason alone Molag Bal covets it. I cannot say. It is inhabited by ghosts whose souls have been trapped in cold gems; pale tortured reflections of the vibrant energies which once coursed among the stars. Some call it Soul Cairn.”

“And what did Molag Bal gain from invading Mournhold? It's unclear to many of us.”

Almalexia got up from her seat.

“We captured a monstrous creature in Bal Fell and imprisoned it in the caves beneath the palace. Only leaders of the Great Houses knew it and the Tribunes, and I assume so did our venerable Dwemer allies. Dinara Dres knew where to find that creature and now it returned to its master’s side. To my deep regret, I must conclude that House Dres betrayed us.”

Murmur arose in the chamber, and before anyone could interrupt her or bring her to reason, an elderly Dres councilor leapt to her feet with surprising mettle. “We didn’t know about Dinara’s collusion with the Prince of Enslavement!” She shouted hoarsely. “No one knew! Now we have no heirs, our reputation is smeared, our profits are suffering – we’ve been punished enough!”

It was a brazen breach of etiquette to stand while the queen was standing, and speak while the queen was speaking, and other Dres Councilors talked the enraged woman into sitting down. The queen frowned, and continued her speech.

“We took into consideration all the mitigating circumstances as we are not without mercy. Our investigation will expose all who plotted with Dinara and we expect reciprocity, conducting it. But that’s not what I propose to discuss today. I propose to temporarily expel House Dres from the Council on the suspicion of colluding with the enemy. We don’t know-”

“It’s a travesty!” Someone from the opposite table exclaimed, forgetting about etiquette.

“Would you still call it a travesty if you knew that one of them may be a spy?” Almalexia insisted, her features immovable. “Think about it! Molag Bal will learn all our clever artifices and strategies as soon as the doors to this chamber open. Esteemed councilors! There will be no victory for us if we disregard the obvious dangers!”

“The queen speaks the truth, but what evidence is there that such dangers do exist?” Kagrenac said quietly, rising from his seat. All eyes were on him, and the room grew quiet. He had an air about him of an aloof observer that disquieted many - nothing seemed to attract his attention, his countenance was perpetually twisted in a bored or derisive grimace and he spoke very little. When he did deign to speak, his never looked at his interlocutors but at something behind them, as if a chair or a table, or a brass sconce were vastly more curious and amusing to him than the conversation. “I don’t dispute that we’re in grave danger, but logic dictates that we never act on a mere suspicion. A suspicion is like a superstition. Today we see, clearly, all that we want to see. Instead of following the way of reason, we enforce on others our own unreasonableness. We become victims of our imagination. Tomorrow’s a different story… Who is to say that other Houses are above suspicion?” And he sat down, losing interest in a conversation which drifted away from the topic.

“Lord Kagrenac is right!” Said the Dres councilor. “It’s an abuse of power to expel anyone from the Council chambers because a shadow of suspicion fell on him. Who will it be tomorrow? Whereof will you accuse us? The mere suggestion of such sort is a mockery of this council!”

“They’ll never approve of it,” Nerevar whispered to his wife. “I understand what you’re trying to do and it’s clever, but it’s hardly the time for such tricks.”

“Then I withdraw my proposal. But I’ll watch you closely. Don’t give me reasons to suspect you of treason!” And Almalexia sat down, formidable and undeterred.

Vivec took her place and retold the Council what he had told Nerevar in the morning, omitting a few important details of Dinara’s defection, and the Hortator idly glanced at Voryn. Vivec’s childlike voice blended in with the crackling of fire and Voryn’s eyes shone brightly across from him, and, letting his thoughts rove, he saw nothing but those eyes and heard nothing but the singing voice. It was a tad too exhilarating, and he was on the verge of falling asleep.   

“…I also wanted to add something,” Cardea’s voice rang loud and clear, and the Hortator shook off drowsiness. Vivec took some time to recount the fruits of his investigation, embellishing his role in it, for the shadows outside the window deepened and the last ghostly gleams of the dying winter sun vanished from the cheerless sky. “The manner of death of my colleagues at Bal Fell was rather peculiar... unfortunate but peculiar. It was a voluntary sacrifice. It appeared to me that their minds have not been their own.”

“How is it that their minds ‘have not been their own’? Explain yourself, esteemed councilor.”

“I wish I was ready to give you a clear explanation, lord Galmis. But they did not act of their own accord. Something… someone took possession of their bodies, extinguished the sparks of rationality in them and drove them to take their own lives. Such fate befell the entire village. In spite of Sotha Sil’s enlightening discoveries, we know very little about our adversary.”

“And if you know yourself but not the enemy, for every victory you will also suffer a defeat,” whispered Nerevar and poignantly sighed. The ancient wisdoms of Boethiah have never rung truer to him.

“Then we’ll take the time to know our enemy.”

“Well said, Vivec.” The Hortator got up at last and gave a speech which he has been preparing for a while. He spoke slowly and with dignity, but didn’t shun jokes or lighthearted and ironic remarks. “I speak for the Law and the Land, yet I can’t help but notice that our land can speak for itself. Our people have a voice, our ancestors express their will and wishes, our deities, too, tell us their secrets. Perhaps we should change it. I should only speak for the law…

“The law is inexorable. When we doubt if we did right or wrong, the law guides us. The law tells us that in times of danger, all will come together in defense of our land. We neglected that duty. So today I propose that we fortify our defenses in Mournhold and Suran, replenish our numbers, and together with our Dwemer allies create a formidable force which will keep watch at our borders so that no crafty foe can catch us unawares.” Nerevar waited while Weewish translated for everyone and went on. “It’s a costly endeavor, but my treasurer will explain to you, my lords, how we can pay for it.”

“Pay for it?”

“My lord Galmis, this idea of mine can’t pay for itself.” Laughter broke out, but Nerevar silenced the nobles with a gesture. “I can’t keep calling for my loyal allies and exhaust their patience and coffers at the first sign of trouble. Dumac already agreed to it and I don’t expect anything else from you, my lords.”

“Such frivolity! We’ll be paying for some absurd enterprise while each House will be left weak and undefended. This is what I’ll tell you. Once our duty was to our own House and we defended ourselves gladly. No mer will protect anything more eagerly and zealously than what belongs to him. You’ll remind me that during the war with the Nords… such and such happened and each House on its own couldn’t gain us a victory. But those Houses were weak. If they could not shake off the yoke of slavery, they were pathetic. House Indoril withstood against the Nords and other Houses should follow their example! My House was weak, too, I admit it. There’s no shame in that.”

“Your speech is honey mixed with bittergreen petals, master Galmis,” objected Voryn. His tall figure seemed clad in flame. “How long do you think a great House could oppose the invaders, even as valiant as House Indoril? Two hundred years? You do a dishonor to our Dwemer allies, to our Hortator, ridiculing their role in our victory. The Nords were winning. Nothing short of a miracle could have saved us.”

“A miracle?” Galmis scoffed, turning to Dumac. “His presence at this table tells me it was a clever deal, not a miracle… Who else agrees with master Voryn of House Dagoth?”

A few uncertain voices were heard, but Nerevar got up from his seat again before the councilors began to clamor. “I did not expect a lesson in history from you, master Galmis. But I’ll oblige you. If my feeble memory serves me well, I recall that your House was losing badly to the Nords… But you haven't even heard my proposal! Please, have a seat. My treasurer will explain everything.”

The royal treasurer was called – a small stout mer who was sweating profusely in heavy furs. He explained in no uncertain terms that the money would come from a permanent tax, but afterwards he began spouting confusing legal terms so that no one would properly understand how Nerevar intended to collect that tax. Weewish faithfully translated the gibberish, and the faces of the councilors grew more astonished and grim before the Hortator’s very eyes. A heated debate ensued and Nerevar ordered a short break.

After the break, Almalexia and Dumac took turns speaking; the queen was evasive and disapproving while Dumac’s words were forceful but straightforward. He wasn’t happy to discover that cultists occupied Mzuanch and advised to act in the name of reason but without rashness. The Council voted and Vivec counted their votes. Four Houses voiced their approval of Nerevar’s proposal, but they were in a stalemate on the tax. Whatever Almalexia or Galmis said moved Cardea to abandon the famed position of indifference for which the Telvanni were renowned and on such uncertain note ended the first day.

“Are you disappointed?” Voryn asked the Hortator after he retired for the night.

“No, not at all,” said Nerevar, smiling. “It was always an uphill road for me to convince them to work together. They’ll change their minds. A month will pass, or maybe a year, but I'll make sure they'll come around. I believe I underestimated Almalexia a bit. In her desperation she is truly dangerous… But I’ll ask you for one more favor.” His smile broadened, his eyes lit up and he put his arms around Voryn’s neck. “Let it all end with a kiss.”

***

_“What Sotha Sil told us then, or what he’s yet to tell us some day, was overwhelming, revolutionary,” recalls Dagoth Ur. A privilege of godhood is to be ever-present – here, he studies the principles of an unparalleled Dwemer genius, here he looks at the world through the eyes of his servant and laments what became of it, and here he reminisces. A god needs not divide his attention. “I will not lie to you - the mystery of the grand Arena tempted me. It was the first time I’ve seen it wholly. Do you remember it, brother Odros?”_

_“Of course, I remember.”_

_They are inseparable, him and his brothers. They can hear him without seeing him and their thoughts pass between them like spoken words._

_“The god of schemes influences us in incomprehensible ways. Even the wisest of us and the cleverest couldn’t predict the outcome. The wisdom of the blind and the cleverness of fools! But Kagrenac already knew. He sat there, looking at us, and our blindness amused him. Beneath the Red Mountain, his tonal architects began building Numidium, but he’d never share his secrets with us… Perhaps only now, perusing at his plans, I understand him at long last. But even he underestimated the Daedric Princes like that crafty dwarf in Nerevar’s tale.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _I speak for the Law and the Land_ \- it's something from Dagoth Ur's speech but it seemed to me that it was an important concept to Chimeri politics. Like a ritual phrase or something. So I will be using that a lot in official meetings.  
>  _ghalyan_ \- an ESO aesthetics, really. 
> 
> Also this story now has an [ amazing fanart ](http://sharmat-dreams.tumblr.com/post/156357722956/tojay-art-arun-and-seht-illustration-for) by ja'khajay on tumblr, check it out :D And send the artist some love.


	12. Chapter 12

** Interlude II: When Stars are Weeping **

Nerevar swung his fist wildly, but in his befuddled mind the ruddy unremarkable face of a Nord was a lot closer than in actuality, and he missed, receiving a sobering thwack on the jaw. There was no pain, no feeling of dizziness, but he tasted blood on his lips, and the tavern ceiling, with its dazzling lights and sooty beams, blooming with rapacious red flowers, was swimming before his eyes. The crowd of spectators laughed, cheering the Nord on. Their faces – their awful, distorted faces – loomed above him, and then the ordinary onlookers from nearby shops, the no-good apprentices in frayed robes, habitual drunkards, gamblers, thieves and suchlike offensive lot disappeared and instead of them Nerevar saw naked women and men with shimmering wings and scaly bodies. He bought something to drown out the screams of the dying which haunted him since that rainy night, but how terribly true all of it seemed - the flowers, the winged people and the monsters around him. The Nord who looked like the vilest of Vaermina’s nightmares drove the tip of his heavy boot into his chest and Nerevar’s world flared up with the brightest of colors.

But, in spite of the pain, Nerevar rose to his feet – slightly battered and bruised but retaining his mettle. A feeling of euphoria came over him. The Nord had heavy fists, but he was ungainly and sluggish from all the spirits and food he consumed before the fight, as if to show the eager audience that he was not a bit afraid of a scrawny Chimer in front of him. And, though he was scarcely scrawny, near the tall, sturdy Nord Nerevar did seem less impressive in the eyes of the onlookers, and they bet considerable coin against him. Many hardy tavern brawlers in appearance resembled the Nord and on most days it wasn’t difficult for Nerevar to earn enough coin to pay for the inexpensive lodgings and food. He refused to think of anything beyond providing simple necessities for himself and Vivec, in spite of the orphan’s pleas – Vivec pleaded him to find a more honorable line of work which would in time position him to serve the queen of Mournhold. Nerevar was overcome with that pernicious sort of indifference which betrays the ailment of the spirit, and no fervent plea, no emphatic admonition could rouse him to excitement. Almalexia told the future Hortator that she had no need of him and his fortresses, and nothing burnt his soul quite like shame. Owing to that profound shame, he slowly altered his memories, and after a year elapsed since he met with the queen, no one could convince him that she flatly refused his offer. He couldn’t endure a thought that he led many young Chimer to their deaths in vain and he vividly imagined that Almalexia was not only deeply impressed with his feats and eloquence with which he described them, but promised him a position worthy of his talents, albeit like all dishonest rulers, she didn’t keep her word.

But that evening nothing troubled Nerevar’s addled mind besides the outcome of the brawl and how to land a particularly heavy blow on the Nord’s chin so that it would end in his favor. Unbeknownst to him, fate had ordained otherwise. As they measured each other up, hands deceptively low yet postures strained, like two beasts of prey, a startled cry disturbed a tense silence – insofar as it was ever quiet in a tavern – and into the ill-lit room burst a dozen or so guards. A short Breton who owned the tavern squeaked loudly and disappeared into the larder with a trapdoor in it which led into the sewer; other disreputable customers scattered about the room, hiding under the tables or fleeing towards the stables, and someone carelessly used magic. A pile of hay on the floor caught fire and through the thick smoke which filled the room Nerevar perceived dark, twisted figures rushing about the room, each with a head of a nix-hound and tusks any kagouti would envy. One of the apprentices was screaming, his long cloak afire. Nerevar wasn’t frightened by the ghastly sight, but quite the reverse, he stood rooted to the spot by a feeling akin to fascination until the Nord pushed him out of the way, hurrying to escape the unexpected conflagration, and he fell. A guard grabbed him by the torn blouse and dragged him into the pall of smoke; Nerevar resisted, gesticulating wildly and dragging the guard towards the room where he had once heard was the stepladder leading to the sewer, but perhaps he was raving or the roar of the fire drowned out his words and the guard didn’t understand him. He drew his sword and delivered a blow to Nerevar’s head with the heavy hilt. Nerevar didn’t remember much of what happened afterwards.

He came to his senses in a dank, dark room which resembled a prison or a cellar, and looking round himself, he excluded the possibility that he was in a cellar. The room was narrow, with a barrel ceiling and cold, wet walls made of uneven stones. In one of the walls was a recess with a small unlit candle in it and an earthen plate on which lay a few unremarkable but smooth rocks, such as those that are found on the sea shore. The offering was more modest than the precious jewels he was accustomed to seeing in the houses of wealthy traders, but it was doubtless a prayer altar to the Three. Nerevar lit the candle with a simple spell. Underneath it, with a sharp object, some poor soul scribbled a desperate prayer to Boethiah in which she begged the Prince to save her from an imminent execution, but towards the end it turned into an unintelligible string of curses. To Nerevar’s greater horror, he was sober, sick and shivery, but he had no recollections as to why he was in the present predicament. He wiped the cold sweat from his forehead, strained his memory, paced from one end of the tiny cell to another, and recalled nothing. His memory was a deep, dark well, and he was gazing into it as if from above in hopes of catching a glimpse of light or a ripple in the glassy water, yet the longer he stared, the darker the well appeared to him, throwing back nothing. How many days or weeks, or perchance months did he spend in this accursed prison?

“Calm down, Nerevar,” he whispered to himself. “If days or weeks have passed since your imprisonment, someone would notice your absence. Vivec would find you. You swallowed some poison again and you’re suffering because of it. Swear to yourself that you won’t take anything… unsavory. It must be a misunderstanding and the guards will let you go in no time.”

But hours passed in oppressive silence and Nerevar didn’t exchange words with a single living soul, guard or prisoner, and he began doubting that there were guards or prisoners in this very odd prison. Or what seemed to him hours were mere instants, prolonged by boredom and anxiety to hear anything besides the howling of the wind or the distant sounds of dripping water. He didn’t sleep well; he woke up every so often, shivering with cold, tossed and turned on the narrow bedding, read a prayer to Boethiah and succumbed to slumber. One thought bothered him, but he wasn’t always aware of it. If he was imprisoned for disorderly conduct, he’d be in a cell with a dozen other misfits, yet to the extent that he could survey his surroundings, he was alone. No queer noises reached his ears, no light but the meager flicker of the candle disturbed his eyes.

The guard came for him in the morning, tied his arms behind his back, covered his eyes with a piece of cloth and led him somewhere through the tunnels and under the warm, bright sunlight. Nerevar tried counting his steps, but gave up after five hundred. The guard refused to answer his questions and was very ill-disposed towards him, threatening to beat him senseless if he ran. Nerevar didn’t run; he had nowhere to be, no sense of purpose or fate to guide him, and no desire to be harassed by a feeble-minded guard.

After they climbed the stairs, the guard took the blindfold off and pushed him into a room unremarkable in all save for the woman who sat on a wide bed in the company of a brutish-looking Nord. She was young but not dainty, with strong bronze arms which were exposed in the light leather lorica adorned with small ebony plates and a well-set figure. She wore her red hair in a modest bun, but the strong wind played with a few bejeweled pins to its heart’s content and her hairdo was lopsided, messy, making her all the more attractive in Nerevar’s eyes. He blamed the queen for his misery a great deal, but in spite of his deep-rooted resentment, he was not sure what to make of the green-eyed girl who sat on the throne of Mournhold longer than he fought for its freedom. Nerevar expected to meet a mature, wise woman, for with those women he always found a common tongue, but before a girl of such tender age he stood embarrassed and aware of his crass manners.

“Lady Almalexia,” he said, bowing his head low. The Nord woman in heavy armor whom Nerevar didn’t spare a single glance until then tried to step between them, but the queen, unabashed, rested her palm on her forearm.

“Tilda is overzealous and loyal to a fault,” Almalexia explained. “We can discuss anything in her presence.”

“There’s nothing to discuss, my lady. I imagine you surrendered Indoranyon to our sworn enemies and they gladly made it their home again. You had an opportunity to rebel against the Nords and you wasted it. You promised me… Ah, what does it matter? All rulers are ungrateful, cowardly fetchers!” And in a few colorful, obscene words the future Hortator described what should happen to such ‘ungrateful, cowardly fetchers’.

“You talk about gratitude… What audacity! You should be grateful I didn’t throw you in prison, s’wit!.. Do you think I’ll tolerate insults from someone of your standing? You will offer your apologies to me or I will have Tilda beat some sense into you. Boethiah be my witness, I didn’t want it to come to this… I didn’t want it at all, but you force my hand!”

‘Will it be so easy?’ Nerevar thought, loosening the rope with which his hands were tied. ‘A girl in a fancy robe, with a fancy title is still just a girl.’

But Almalexia with some effort restrained herself. “I should have expected it,” she muttered to herself. “Mercenaries are loyal only to gold. What do you say? Let’s not haggle over a few coins… Two thousand gold?”

“How difficult is this task, my queen?”

“I need a letter delivered to a reclusive Telvanni wizard. He lives on an unmarked island south of Tel Mora. Here’s a payment of a thousand gold coins for your travel expenses and gear. You will receive your reward upon returning to Mournhold with the wizard’s response.”

Nerevar shook his numb shoulders, watching the young queen with burning curiosity. “Your generosity is astounding, my lady. It must be a very important letter if you’re willing to pay thrice as much for its safe delivery as I’d get for a month of tedious guard duty. Not a note to a secret admirer, I take it?”

“Spare me your jests… Will you deliver the letter or not?”

“My answer depends on your honesty.”

“I owe the likes of you no explanations!”

“If I’m to risk my life for you, you owe me everything,” retorted Nerevar. “No one pays so much gold for a leisurely stroll along the Azura’s coast. And you can’t entrust this task to this mountain of a Nord… Is she less capable than I suspected?”

“You will not speak ill of Tilda!” Almalexia sounded exasperated again, cheeks flush with indignation, but she stubbornly refused to act out of anger. “It appears to me that we’re not on equal footing. I hold your abilities in deep respect. When I heard that a lone man inspired a band of villagers to rebel against the Nords and captured a fortress, I eagerly awaited your arrival. It was a remarkable feat!.. But you show me no deference! I approach you with a request, and you insult me. I try to reason with you, and you challenge my every word. What has your queen done to earn your scorn, mercenary?”

“You surrendered Indoranyon-”

“Enough of this! I gave it up to save your life, though you’re determined to see me regret my decision.”

“I doubt my life is worth anything to you,” Nerevar said heatedly. “Do you know how many of us died that night? They died because I wasn't… Well, it’s all that matters. They’re dead and you dishonor their sacrifice.”

“And by letting you die I would somehow honor it? Far be it from me to think that a mercenary would be versed in House politics, but you seem to be oblivious of all except your umbrage.” Almalexia rose to her feet, leaning on the long ebony staff, and glanced over the room. “What you see around us is a lie. I am not proud of crafting it, but my people needed to believe there was hope… The truth is that the Nords are too strong. They allow my ‘illusions of independence’ because they do not think of me as a threat. I’ve convinced them of it. But the news of a courageous upstart capturing one of the fortresses along their supply routes agitated them. They demanded I execute you and give them back their city as a gesture of good faith, but that would leave me with nothing. I had to choose and I concluded your life to be of greater value to me than a defenseless city. I convinced the Nords that I didn’t know who attacked them and that I had no hand in it. It took me a long time to allay their suspicions, so I made no attempts to contact you again. Vivec told me about your misadventures in the taverns-”

“Vivec?” Nerevar said through clenched teeth.

“My servants caught him stealing from the kitchen and brought him to me. I at once recognized your companion… a child who was neither a girl, nor a boy. I fed him and listened to the extraordinary tales of his adventures. For someone so young, he knows a lot about this world... Afterwards, he snuck into the palace from time to time to entertain me with his stories. That’s how I knew where to find you. He assured me that you were desperate to do some good and that you would seize this opportunity to serve me. He means well. How did you meet?”

“I found him on the side of the road, starving to death. I took pity on him, but he mistook my kindness for advances…” Nerevar murmured. A swimming came before his eyes and it took a considerable effort to sit upright and look at the face of the young queen. He didn’t hear himself explaining to Almalexia that he had no interest in children or that Vivec would not leave him alone after their conversation – as long as he kept speaking, he would not fall apart in front of her, and it didn’t cross his mind that he may be saying utter nonsense. “I will deliver the letter,” he said all of a sudden and, shaking off loose rope, stood upright. “You can trust me with it.”

Almalexia extended him a small parcel wrapped thrice in a piece of silk which smelled of rare spices and musk, and Nerevar hid it in the lapels of his dirty blouse. The queen called to him when he was outside the door.

“If you try to open the letter, it will be ruined irreparably and you won’t get your reward. You will do well to remember that.”

Nerevar nodded his head, pressed the parcel close to his chest as though it was a priceless treasure and ran down the stairs.

‘The queen is still a girl,’ he thought to himself in deep agitation, ‘but a girl worthy of my respect.’

***

Nerevar met with Vivec in their squalid room on the last floor of a building with tiny yellowish windows which overlooked the plaza and gathered his meager belongings into a sack: a worn-out simple shirt, a silver dagger, a Daedric sword and a cumbersome steel cuirass. While he was preparing for a long journey, Vivec boasted to him that he procured two magic scrolls which would take them to Sadrith Mora wherefrom they would travel by sea to their destination. The youth prudently stocked up on levitation potions and various magical remedies. Without the scrolls it would take weeks to deliver the sorcerer’s answer to Mournhold and in the wilderness danger waylaid them everywhere: in a bite of a diseased cliffracer, in a skirmish with bandits, or in an encounter with something far more sinister.

The teleportation spell on the scrolls worked properly, and, as the world around them came to a standstill, they found themselves in the main temple of Mephala, fighting an unpleasant feeling of giddiness. Nerevar put on a long pilgrim’s cloak before he read the incantation on the scroll, and his appearance amidst the priests of the Webspinner, amidst the travelers who were passing through the town and robed sorcerers, didn’t attract anyone’s attention. Mephala’s priests were generally the quiet, impassive sort. They studied Mephala’s secret teachings, fascinated by patterns of fate in the Great Web and obscure alignments of celestial bodies, and expressed little interest in the outside world. Unless Nerevar set the temple on fire, the priests would ignore him, but he was nevertheless worried about the queen’s mysterious enemies and made effort to blend in with the ill-matched travelers.

From the temple to the port, along a scenic rocky shore, stretched a small bazaar of no more than two or three rows of awnings from guar skin under which merchants and smiths displayed their goods and offered travelers to mend their armor. The weather was pleasantly warm and a stroll along the sea shore seemed an inviting idea, but Vivec asked him for a few coins and ran off to gawk at the exotic fabric or trained animals. Nerevar found a quiet spot by the herbalist’s tent to pass the time and indulge in reflection. For an entire year he lived as if in a haze: he fought Nords in the taverns instead of battlefields, he woke up in the company of two or three women, remembering, to his disgust, neither their names, nor their faces, he drank to forget his failures and disappointments, and all this time the young queen understood what he couldn’t grasp. To her it was as natural as breathing to demand obedience and self-sacrifice from those who served her. When he sent the villagers to their deaths at Indoranyon, he acted as a king would act to win this war, and with his doubts and profound regrets he dishonored their sacrifice. Nerevar clenched his fists and uttered a loud groan. ‘I’m a fool,’ he berated himself. ‘How can I hope to lead anyone to victory? Why did I believe it had to be me? Any one of them can do it better than I! The queen is sure more deserving of the honor…’ Forgetting all but the thought which troubled him for a long while, Nerevar looked round himself to find Vivec, but the youth disappeared in the crowd which steadily flowed through the bazaar and towards the port. Nerevar elbowed his way through the throng of Telvanni retainers in brown robes and ran in the direction of an outdoor smithy where he had last seen Vivec, and many men and mer in the streets turned their heads to gape at him with unhidden animosity. They recognized in him an outlander and outlanders never found a warm welcome in the lands of proud Telvanni.  

The future Hortator saw Vivec by the stall which was crammed with toys, tiny decorations from glass and ebony, cheap jewelry and other manner of trinkets (even Dwemeri utensils). The youth chattered merrily with an older Breton woman, holding up a small flute to the sun, and he didn’t notice Nerevar until he seized him by the arm and unceremoniously dragged him away from the attractive shopboard.

“How do you know I will be the Hortator and lead the Chimer to victory against the Nords?” Nerevar whispered frantically.

“What are you doing, Nerevar? Let me go, please!” Vivec freed himself from his grasp. “I want to buy that flute.”

“You can get it later. First, answer me! Are you sure it wasn’t the queen?”

“I know what I saw. It was scary and confusing… I’ll never forget. You’ll be the Hortator, with me by your side as your Councilor, and the queen will be our wife: yours at daybreak and mine by nightfall.”

“A woman cannot take two husbands and a man-”

“I know what I saw,” repeated Vivec, stubbornly lowering his head upon his breast.

Nerevar waved his arm with disappointment and Vivec, skipping over the small puddles left by the morning rain, ran towards the stall. For all his wisdom, he was still a child.

After Vivec paid for the flute, they descended the stairs which grew inside the hollow, winding root of a mushroom tree to the port and talked to an elderly Nord with a rugged face who told them that they could wait for a ship to Tel Mora or take a fisherman’s boat to the unnamed island of that reclusive Telvanni wizard. Nerevar decided that it was wiser to take a small shallop and slip out of Sadrith Mora unnoticed. There were quite a few boats at the quay, and by the time the sun began to set, they found a wealthy fisherman who for a modest coin agreed to take them out to sea. The common folk were friendlier than the aloof Telvanni, and the fisherman eagerly engaged in a conversation with them. Nerevar spread out a warm blanket at the bow while the Bosmer and a young, boisterous lass he introduced as his daughter raised the sails and grabbed a pair of oars. Nerevar made himself comfortable on the blanket and Vivec after some fidgeting and fussing, settled by his side, resting his head on his lap. Only then was he content and quieted down. The sea around them was calm and pellucid like a mirror, in which the sun and the sky dressed in saffron hues were reflected, and it seemed to them that there were two suns and two skies and no sea at all. The boat glided across the bay with ease, rocking gently in the waves, and Nerevar while he watched the tall mushroom towers fade in the evening mist, slowly drifted into sleep.  

“What can you tell me about this wizard? Mavos Siloreth was his name, I think,” he asked, rousing himself. He couldn’t have dozed off for more than a few moments, for the quay, crowded with crude longships of the Nords and graceful like birds in flight flagships from Alinor, was still visible to the naked eye.

“Not much, I’m afraid, good man,” said the garrulous fisherman, dawdling with a tangled sail. “That’s just it, they are wizards and no one knows anything about them. They keep to themselves and look down on us, commoners, like we’re their slaves. Mavos is no different. I sell fish to his servants every week, but I’ve seen him only once. He didn’t speak a word to me or my daughter, but that expression on his face said it all. His ego’s as large as his tower and then some.”

“That’s hardly helpful,” said Vivec, stirring.

“Do you think he’ll receive us?”

“I can’t say, sera. These wizards are capricious. Today he’ll see you and tomorrow he’ll find an excuse to keep you waiting for a week. My daughter and I…”

Nerevar lowered his head onto his travel sack and slipped a dagger underneath it, listening to the insinuating whisper of the waves against the wooden boards instead of the fisherman’s voice. It soothed his heart to be under the moon and stars again, where he lived most of his life unaware of Mournhold’s vices, alluring as they were.

“Promise me that you won’t fight again,” whispered Vivec.

“In the taverns?”

“In the taverns or elsewhere… You won’t fight or drink in excess. I don’t want to see you like that.”

Nerevar glanced at his knuckles which hardly ever healed. “I’m sorry, Vivec.”

“It’s not your destiny. I saw it and Azura showed you, too.”  

“Anger consumed me whole, don’t you understand? I’m still angry, but it’s bearable… What did you tell the queen? She said you tried to steal from the kitchens.”

“I was starving, but you were too angry to notice.” Vivec brought the flute to his lips and struck a plaintive note. “I told her about the Dwemer who knew nothing of love, only numbers. She liked it, I think. She, too, knows nothing of love.”

…The island appeared as the thick nightly darkness fell around them and the fisherman lit a torch he had dipped in oil from kagouti fat so that it would burn brighter; that light was mirrored somewhere ahead of them and the fisherman turned the boat towards it, skillfully guiding it through treacherous waters. What they saw in the murk was a lone magelight which illumined a desolate wharf. The wharf itself was built upon a giant root of the mushroom tower which was lost to view in the distance and by virtue of its design – narrow and torturous – it could not accommodate any boats during the high tide. Nerevar jumped into the shallow water and held out his arm for Vivec who gripped it tightly, and together they made their way to the wharf. The fisherman waved his arm at parting and yelled something, but the loud sound of the waves breaking on the shore drowned it out. They were soaked to the skin by the time they found a lone guard snoring peacefully by a stone door to a grotto which seemed to have grown in the same manner as the tower and the surrounding buildings. Nerevar shook the guard by the shoulder and he woke up, looking utterly dumbfounded.

“Who goes there?” He hastened to light the torch and drew his sword.

“We’re messengers,” said Nerevar. “We need to talk to your master. Take us to him.”

“At this ungodly hour? How do I know-”

“By Azura, I could have killed you when you slept… but I’m not here to cause your master any trouble.”

The guard mulled over something in his head and pushed the stone door open, revealing an ascending grotto lit with bright magelights and resembling inside a hollow tree trunk. The air smelled of earth and sea weed, but the floor was to Nerevar’s surprise dry and unmarred by lichen or other signs of rot. Many Telvanni dwellings boldly stood on the edge of water, yet some magic protected them from floods and decay from the time they were tiny saplings, and Nerevar couldn’t shake off an impression that the walls around him breathed and watched him from the deep shadows when he looked away.

The guard entrusted them to the care of a young servant girl of rather odd appearance: she was very pale, with thin angular features, dark, sunken eyes, and glossy, dark hair which accentuated her pallor. Nerevar couldn’t quite grasp what caught his eye, but he couldn’t tear his gaze off her unusual face which didn’t lack comeliness, embarrassing her with his brazen curiosity.

“He was a Nord,” she said without expression, assiduously cleaning spotless glassware. “I meant my father, of course. I hear this question quite often.”

“And your mother was a Chimer?”

“A proud Telvanni no less,” she spat out the words with a poorly concealed loathing. “But what brings you here?”

“We carry an urgent message for Mavos Siloreth.”

“I’ll tell my master, but he won’t see you until morning. He studies the sky at night and he doesn’t wish to be disturbed. In the meanwhile, I can show you to the kitchens. My master may be arrogant, but he’s not inhospitable… Ah, and I hope you brought levitation potions with you if you don’t know the spell. The kitchens are on the second floor and we don’t use stairs.”

Nerevar exchanged amused glances with Vivec and turned to the servant girl. “How should I call you?”

She shrugged her frail shoulders. “Cardea,” she said. “Cardea Fyr.”

***

In spite of his reputation of an arrogant, overbearing and pedantic mer, Mavos Siloreth sent for them early in the morning and received them in his study cluttered will all manners of magical trinkets, from an ancient astrolabe to a dusty mortar, to a large schematic of a summoning circle and a few jars with unappetizing contents. Above the fireplace hung a mummified and quite ugly-looking hand of a daedroth, but its purpose was incomprehensible to them. The room was well-lit in spite of the early hour. The eccentric wizard, wearing a long golden robe with a richly embroidered neckline and pink slippers, stood by the table and nonchalantly juggled a few tiny fireballs in dangerous closeness to a heap of dry parchment. He could be a few decades older than Nerevar, or a few centuries – it was hard to tell a Telvanni wizard’s age by his appearance.

“You must be the mercenaries Cardea told me about,” Mavos said, pursing his lips. “How quaint! Isn’t he too young to be a mercenary?”

“My name’s Vivec,” cheerfully said Vivec.

“Well, young Vivec, tell me why you disturb me from my work. I must admit I agreed to meet with you only because Cardea’s words left me frustratingly curious.”

“We bring a letter from the queen of Mourhold.”

“That’s certainly curious. What does it say?”

“We don’t know.”

“Of course! You’re just mercenaries. It was stupid of me to ask… Now, can I see this letter?”

Nerevar reached into his sack and handed Mavos the small parcel. “It’s enchanted,” he thought it fit to warn him.

“I know Sotha Sil’s tricks… There! These younglings think they know everything nowadays… Return to me in a few hours and I’ll have the answer prepared for you.”

They took their leave of Mavos and went down to the kitchens where Cardea was grinding herbs and other alchemical substances in a large mortar. She wore a simple blue robe and a hat with a wide brim, and the lower half of her face was covered with a cloth. Nerevar took a seat on a bench beside her and asked a cook for a healthy serving of spicy alit meat.

“How do I get to the mainland from this island?” He said, savoring the delicacy.

“There’ll be a boat tonight. It’ll take you to Vos.”

“I can’t go to Vos!”

“The ship to Sadrith Mora won’t come by this island for another week and my master doesn’t like outsiders. You can’t stay here just the same.”

“And I won’t go to Vos,” retorted Nerevar.

“There was trouble in those parts a year or so ago. I remember hearing about it from a fisherman. Some upstart led a rebellion against the Nords. The news frightened the Jarl who resides in Sadrith Mora like he’s our rightful lord,” Cardea stifled a laugh. “Let me tell you, it frightened him out of his wits. But those poor souls… Some say all of them had died in a bloody skirmish and I believe it.”

“I haven't heard anything about a rebellion,” muttered Nerevar, turning deathly pale.

“Then why won’t you go to Vos?”

“I have my reasons.”

“Well, it’s none of my concern, but I advise you not to abuse my master’s hospitality.”

Nerevar saw a chance to change the awkward subject. “You feel sympathy for the rebels and express no love for the Nords. Whose side is Mavos on?”

“Mavos is on Mavos’s side. But he harbors a grudge against them, so I think he’s plotting something… Why do you inquire? Will you fight them?”

“Only Azura knows… Say, you father was a Nord. Why do you hate them with such passion?”

“That’s just it! Everyone despises me for something I didn’t choose to be!” Exclaimed Cardea, crushing the frost salts in the mortar with great zeal. “For the Telvanni, my blood is too thin. I tell them that I can do magic better than their magisters, but – alas, it’s true! – I didn’t inherit any of the natural resistances to elements. They shun me for it… I’m still young and I outlived my _father_ by fifty years! He rests in peace at the bottom of the sea and I’m suffering because he didn’t think twice before putting his hands on my mother!” She buried her face in both palms, trembling all over. “You’re the first Chimer who knew of my tainted heritage and didn’t think it scorn to talk to me… I can help you if you want.”

Nerevar thoughtlessly smiled at her. “How can you help me?”

“My master doesn’t know it, but I can enchant scrolls. I study magic in secret and I'm quite adept at inscribing incantations on paper. I’ll make two scrolls for you and that young boy who travels with you.”

…Upon returning to Mournhold with Mavos’s answer, Nerevar was offered to join House Indoril as a retainer and he accepted the proposal, taking a name which his enemies would fear and his allies admire and cherish all throughout the long years to come. Vivec joined with him, too, albeit he refused to take on any names.  

***

_“…I never asked Almalexia what was in that letter to Mavos,” Nerevar concludes with a smile. “It never seemed important to me. Many years later Sotha Sil let it slip that they discussed the nature of Daedric summoning and for a while, he entertained an idea of fighting the Nords with an army of animated constructs. It was a brilliant theory and he needed someone like Mavos to help him realize it.”_

_Voryn is aware that the Hortator is speaking, but he doesn’t make out the separate words, only the sound of his voice and the outlines of his face in the dim light of a lone candle. ‘On the honor that we share, I swear he’s more beautiful now than he’s ever been,’ he thinks wistfully._

_“What’s with that expression, my old friend? It seems to me I talked your ear off and you’re awfully bored. If you wish to discuss the Council-”_

_“Forget about the Council,” whispers Voryn._

_Nerevar seats himself on the bed, understanding the delicate hint, and beckons Voryn to join him, but the head of House Dagoth stubbornly seeks refuge in his chair out of fear that his legs might give out under him. Nerevar is terrifying in his serenity, and Voryn worries that he didn’t remember to apply his favorite ointments before he left for the Hortator’s chambers, or that he doesn’t look consummate, like he always imagined he’d look in front of him. He’s had lovers before him, but Nerevar has a domineering presence about him and in the Hortator’s shadow, Voryn feels diminished yet utterly disarmed by the burning intensity with which he watches him._

_“Make love to me tonight, Voryn,” Nerevar says and with those impassioned words, his timidity vanishes and a pleasant feeling of warmth overtakes him. He can’t believe he spent many years denying to himself something so wholly natural – a few lifespans of men, no less, slipped by him and into the void where time goes until it’s sundered before he found the courage to tell Nerevar he loved him. It’s the curse of all Chimer to view the world as stale and unmoving, to live their lives unhurriedly because beyond the horizon is but another day in their endless youth._

_Neither of them is young or invincible, and in the face of that understanding his fears seem childlike and unfounded. Voryn is no longer hesitant when he straddles over Nerevar’s long legs and makes himself comfortable on Nerevar’s lap, wrapping his arms around his neck and looking down at his unguarded face, as if to etch every line of it into his memory – the noble aquiline nose, high cheekbones, the slightly slanting eyes, and a beguiling curve of his firm mouth. Nerevar’s strong hands unequivocally settle on his buttocks and he kisses him deeply but gently, until Voryn is sure he can hear the flutter of his beating heart. Nerevar’s mouth tastes of something indistinguishably fresh and pleasant, and he can’t keep his head well, not because it’s something out of the ordinary to be kissing his Hortator but because he wanted it for so long that he can’t contain his eagerness. He sets to kissing him with verve, with teeth and tongue, and Nerevar, astonished at his impetuous lovemaking and breathless, allows him to lead - deeper, rougher! - and take him to the heights of ecstasy. The spidersilk robe Voryn is wearing slips off his shoulders and foams around them with blood-red lace and soft, slick cloth, crumpled between their heated bodies conjoined in a tight embrace. Voryn always looked lovely and solemn in darker hues of red, but Nerevar doesn’t appear to be appreciative of his careful choice of attire, undressing him swiftly and sloppily. There isn’t a trace of serenity on the Hortator’s countenance now; his brow is furrowed, uneven breaths escape his parted lips, for he can’t feign indifference at the sight of Voryn, nude and aroused, seated across his lap. Voryn shivers with excitement when Nerevar presses his lips to his skin and slowly trails his tongue along the neck line to his ear._

_“Will you put a curse on me again?” He teases. “Am I too presuming?”_

_“I much preferred when you put your tongue to a better use, my lord,” says Voryn and closes his eyes. ‘My lord, my friend, my companion,’ he thinks but only to himself, relishing in the tender but insistent caress of Nerevar’s hands._

_He doesn’t wait a long while for the Hortator to oblige him, unfastening his breeches and leaning over to him. Underneath all the garments, Nerevar is thinner than Voryn imagined – sinewy, hardy and scarred – and he enjoys exploring those blemishes while each mark tells him a different story: a story of conquest, or loss, or victories wrenched from cruel fate. Voryn gets to know Nerevar anew, without words, discovering what puts a frown upon his brow and what shatters his composure, leaves him moaning in blissful self-forgetfulness. Nerevar is no more restrained in bed than on a field of battle, entering the fray with the same vigor he makes love, but here he doesn’t insist on leading. Even so Voryn is wholly at his mercy; it excites him to give, to take his lover whole and firm into his mouth and guide him, with his tongue and skillful fingers, to the pinnacle of delight. Nerevar’s reassuring hand stroking his long hair, urging him to continue, is the reward enough; the look on his strained face is maddening._

_…When Nerevar takes him from behind, disheveled and relentless, Voryn lets go of every thought and loses himself in the rhythm, weightless and drenched in sweat. Only Nerevar’s palms on his hips seem to ground him, but it’s no easy feat to keep up with him. There’s no sense of time where he is now. His mind is clouded. Voryn grips the headboard from exhaustion and prepares to make that last climb to the summit before he’ll plummet into the dark, aching yet utterly spent in ways he can’t remember spending himself. He doesn’t hear his moans and cries._

_When he throws back his head in the final shudders of orgasm, he sees a patch of the nightly sky and the stars, shining, weeping for the both of them._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _When stars are weeping_ \- a title taken from this poetic conversation you can have with one of Dagoth Ur's dreamers in original game. It says: "At the lonely hour of midnight, I fly, when stars are weeping. Beneath the echo of souls, my spirit sleeping." Quite beautiful and poetic, no? :)
> 
>  _Mavos Siloreth_ \- a character from ESO. You meet him (or rather his ghost) in Stonefalls during the main Pact questline.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so... first of all I would like to thank a wonderful artist [cherrymoya](http://cherrymoya.tumblr.com/) for providing me with joy of seeing these terrible elves in all their glory. I've been screaming about it (silently) for weeks, how perfectly it depicts both characters and really, the art work is gorgeous and I am only excited about what she will come up next
> 
>  

** Chapter  11:  The Great Ashkhan **

_‘Do you feel the awakening, brother? Those of one flesh and blood with us began to hear its long-forgotten call.’_

_‘Of course I felt it, Vemyn,’ thinks Dagoth Ur; and then:_

( _Nerevar’s body, warm and pliant in his hands, bends like clay for its sculptor, heaves and trembles – a shameless, insatiable thing_ )

_‘Brother?’_

_‘Their song called me back – they are ready! But it’s too early to act. I’ll send them a sign, explain them how to find me and leave the rest to them.’_

_The Heart shudders as it shuddered on that day when Kagrenac used his forbidden tools on it and a heartrending, plaintive music is heard as the taut strings of magic strain and burst with a shriek. Then all is silent. He can’t boast of mastering the tonal sorcery of the Dwemer wholly, and the secondary tones are quite unruly, but those who have ears will hear him and those who have eyes will behold his long shadow in the waking world._

_'We wait, brothers. It won’t be long now. As I promised you, we’ll shape the world into its ordained form.’_

_Dagoth Ur hears love and laughter and those whispers fill him with exultation._

***

A gray pall of rain enveloped the world of man and mer.

It drizzled down in the morning, but came noon the wind gained strength and with all its might blew oblique, cold spurts of rain across the vast expanse of Ashlands. Expensive carpets had to be thrown into dirt and tents hastily put up for the splendid suite from House Indoril and Redoran which accompanied the Hortator on his journey from Ald’ruhn and met with the Ashlanders and the solemn procession carrying banners of House Dagoth on the slopes of the Red Mountain not too far from the Dwemer settlement of Kashtungatz.  The scouts chose a wide dale bordering in the north and south upon deep pools of boiling mud and bestrewn with notched tree stumps which resembled snow-white teeth of an enormous beast jutting out from the ash and stone without order, on a whim of first ancestors. From the haze below rose thin towers and steeples of a Dwemer city, and at the mouth of the valley, nestled between barren hills overgrown with thorny trama root, began a steep road leading towards the ash-gray summit of the Red Mountain which neither a guar rider nor an unmounted traveler could climb with ease.

At some distance from the northern mud ponds, the assiduous Ashlanders set up an awning thirty paces long and twenty paces wide and covered the floor with mats from bittergreen plant, carpets and furs so that the Ashkhans and other illustrious persons wouldn’t soil their shoes.  In Velothi language, it was Gaan Dol – the sacred ground – and for as long as the Great Ashkhan and the tribe leaders remained on it, settling their disputes, even the pettiest crime merited a harsh and unusual punishment. On the sacred ground, bitter differences were forgotten and past offences forgiven out of deference to the Great Ashkhan’s full authority: his judgment, according to the law of the ancestors and with respect to tradition, was indubitable and tribe leaders never presumed to challenge it. None but the Great Ashkhan could bear weapons on the sacred ground – chap’thil, champions and farseers would keep watch along its invisible yet tangible borders or abandon all tools of bloodshed to remain with their masters. On such occasions when Nerevar met with the Ashkhans on the sacred ground, he was wasteful, bringing with him a magnificent and fearsome entourage so as to discourage any bold adversary of his or his guest’s from seizing a propitious opportunity to lay an ambush for them.

Whilst the Ashlanders hung the awning with traditional decorations and offerings to their numerous ancestors, Nerevar stood in his tent with a letter in his hands, occasionally reading a few lines from it under his breath. He was garbed in heavy furs which coiled around his neck like a snake and from his shoulders into the thick slush cascaded a fine dark-blue cloak with a golden trim. Golden was his Indoril cuirass adorned with decorative scales from precious metals and golden was his helmet which presently lay on a low stool forgotten; and his entire ceremonial garb shimmered like a tiny sun owing to a simple illusion spell. The Great Ashkhan carried a sword to punish the wicked as was his right, but couldn’t don garments he’d wear into battle lest his subjects would interpret it as a sign of his deep mistrust of them; instead of it, he chose to put on an imposing albeit useless suit of armor to keep up appearances and no one could fault him for it.

It was the month of the Lover and so contrary to its name, one of the coldest months of the year, but neither the dull patter of persistent rain against the guarskin roof of his tent, nor cold distracted the Hortator from reading the letter.

 _‘…I believe it was unwise of us to give in to our careless passions_ , _but wisdom is a poor companion in solitude,’_ wrote Voryn in his familiar, florid style. _‘Wisdom cannot leave me breathless with one kiss. Wisdom won’t look at me with your deep, gray eyes until I lose myself in them. I’m unwise, but come dawn or dusk, chance or change, good or ill, to you my sweet friend, I remain unchanged in my affections…’_

It was flattering to think that he left an indelible impression on his old friend after their first passionate night together, but Nerevar didn’t deceive himself like that. Voryn loved him for quite some time, yet kept a stubborn silence as if it wasn’t important to him to see their companionship grow into a fervent afair. Until now he has never been so bold and this unfamiliar boldness both stirred Nerevar to the innermost depths of his heart and upset him. If so eloquent, so daring a letter fell into the hands of his enemies, it would ruin both of them – what sordid rumors those slanderers would spread about them! what they would say about his decisions now ‘tainted’ by his weakness for Voryn! how they would injure Voryn to avenge all those injuries they suffered by his hand! Nerevar peeked through the chink in the walls of his tent and looked round himself a few times, harkening to the clamor in the valley. When he was sure that no one was spying on him, he snapped his fingers and lowered the corner of Voryn’s letter into the flame dancing merrily upon his palm. He watched it burn to the last ember and trampled the ashes into dirt.   

“My lord, Voryn Dagoth is here to see you,” tactfully said Alandro Sul behind him.

Nerevar nodded, and in came Voryn, stooping down a bit to pass under the heavy drape which hung over the entrance. He wore a dark fur-lined robe with a richly-embroidered belt girt round his loins and decorative ebony armlets on his forearms, and a few long locks of his impeccable hair were gathered on the back of his head with a bejeweled hairpin, revealing two blood-drops of earrings in all their mesmerizing glitter. There wasn’t a drop of rain on him and his outward appearance suited a man who had just walked out of his bedchambers, refreshed with a drink and fragrant perfume. Voryn’s countenance was always calm and earnest, creased a bit at the brow or twisted in a jeering grimace, but when their eyes met, he unsuccessfully tried to repress a tender smile.

“Lord Nerevar-”

“Let me be Nerevar, I ask you. Just this once… let me be Nerevar.”

He flinched, looking aside. “Ah, dear me… Nerevar, why did you call me here? The preparations for the greeting ceremony are almost over.”

“I wanted to hear your thoughts. During our brief talk before chil’a, I had an impression you were quite anxious to put this ordeal with your brother behind you. I heeded your plea and this is my answer to you. Does it please you?”

“You left Mournhold when the city needs you… for me?”

There was a glint of merriment in Nerevar’s eyes. “Do you think me so sentimental a fool?.. No, I intend to kill three kagouti with one arrow. Both Boethiah and Mephala teach us the art of artifice and surprise. I decided that I had to act as no one would expect of me… I’m fed up with self-willed ashkhans and insolent nobles, to tell you the truth. My meddling in your affairs is a testament of my determination to put an end to it. The Ashkhan will be happy to lay his eyes on me, thinking it a sign of my favor. Let him think that. Your brothers will be confused – they won’t know what to make of me and I hope to make an agreeable impression. And you, my friend… I see how this burden torments you and I want to set your mind at ease. I’ll listen to both sides, but if you wish I spare him…” Nerevar took Voryn’s cold hand and greedily pressed those slender fingers to his lips, gazing at his face with great attention. He hasn’t seen Voryn or heard from him for many days, barring the ill-fated letter which reached him late, and all the while he met with numerous nobles after the Council sitting, cajoled or threatened them, he longed for his friend’s reassuring presence and shrewd advice. It was an inoffensive gesture, but Voryn’s hand trembled when Nerevar passed his lips across his delicate palm and a weak half-sigh, half-moan escaped him when the Hortator, coming to his senses, let go of it. There was something undeniably and awfully attractive about Voryn’s hands.  

The feeling came over him and passed, and Voryn stood before him composed as before.

“All I ask is that you uphold my family’s honor.”

“Is that your only wish? How modest of you! Well, so be it… Alandro, show lord Dagoth to his seat.”

Under the guarskin awning, the Ashlanders placed three low stools for the tribe leader and his distinguished guests while the rest of the participants gathered round them, seating themselves anywhere so long as the furs and mats underneath were dry. The wicked, biting rain relented, but the perpetually-frowning sky didn’t betoken a warmer weather, hanging over them in patches of shaggy clouds and whitish haze which stubbornly refused to dissipate. In some parts of Vvardenfell and on mainland, many considered it a sure sign of the ancestors’ displeasure, but in the Ashlands, the rare rains were met with jubilation like a blessing from the Three. On such foul days, Nerevar’s oldest wounds ached, reminding him of his first battles with the Nords – his first unsteady steps – and of his hatred which still stung like an old, deep scar, and of his only regret. He would wake at night many years after, with beads of sweat upon his forehead and fists tightly clenched, wishing with such maddening fervor that it frightened him to rip out Hoag the Merkiller’s heart.  

Dun-Ilu waited for him under the awning, looking oddly helpless without a spear or an axe to complete his formal attire. They greeted each other, briefly pressing their foreheads together as if sharing a breath, and the Ashkhan’s elaborate headwear, consisting of copper and golden adornments, strings of lucid brightly-colored beads and a fur cap, tilted to the side. Then Dun-Ilu exchanged a similar greeting with Voryn and addressed the gathering briefly yet with great feeling.

“I hope that your presence, oh Great Ashkhan, is a guarantee that justice won’t be perverted,” he told Nerevar in a low voice after his speech.

The Ashlanders didn’t have courts, sentencing their criminals as a whole tribe, and the informal manner in which the Great Ashkhan decided such matters satisfied them. After everyone was seated, Nerevar called the first witness and the gulakhan led a woman in who introduced herself as Ilmeni, Azura’s priestess. She was of low stature and unremarkable in appearance, though her exact features were difficult to discern under a deep dark-green hood of her simple robe.

“Speak, good woman, tell us what you saw that day,” said Nerevar.

“I was praying to our Mother when I heard a commotion outside the temple. I thought it rude to interrupt my prayer, and when I peeked outside, I saw Grandmaster Dagoth arguing with his brother, Gilvoth.” And Ilmeni, in a few words, described the familiar scene. “After the grandmaster calmed everyone, I took the Ashlander girl to the stables and chose a meek guar for her. She was afraid of something and kept looking back over her shoulder, but I told her not to worry. The Granfmaster's word is the law. We talked for a while, but her answers were terse. I asked her name and she answered with one word. I asked what happened between her and that scoundrel, the Three forgive my anger, but she wouldn’t tell me anything… I won’t bore you with the details of our uneventful journey, my Hortator. When we found the camp, I took the girl to see the Wise Woman and she looked at her with great care. Later the Wise Woman told me that the girl was beaten and her body was violated.” The priestess wrung her hands. “It’s what I’ve been told, sera. I know what you’ll ask. I didn’t see it happen before my eyes and didn’t hear it from the girl with my own ears. But on Azura’s sacred name, I swear to you that it is true.”

“Thank you, Ilmeni, for your testimony,” said Nerevar, glancing to his left. The Ashkhan sat upright and proud, enjoying the impression the priestess’s words made on the gathering. “Does anyone have questions for this witness?”

“I do.” Voryn rose from his seat, irresistible in dark, heavy furs, but his countenance was grim. “Do you recall my first encounter with the Ashkhan? We talked for a bit before I called you to the yurt, but you were aware of what had been said between us. Did you overhear our words? I doubt it. I’m a master of magic arts. I’d sense your artless spells. It appears to me more likely that in a few hours before my arrival, you conspired with the Wise Woman and the Ashkhan to tell a lie. You, a priestess of our Mother… How shameful! My brother Gilvoth is many things – a common scoundrel, a thug, a coward. It won’t do me any good to defend him before this gathering. To him this girl is a slave, because new laws of our lord Hortator mean nothing to him. But he wouldn’t lay a finger on her unless she disobeyed him. So I ask you again, priestess. How did you come to learn what the Ashkhan and I discussed in his yurt? Or will you deny it?”

“Deny the accusation or answer lord Dagoth’s question,” said Nerevar.

“It was a slip of the tongue!” Cried out the priestess. “I didn’t mean to say that I knew about any of it.”

“So you told a lie. An inadvertent lie, but a lie nevertheless… How can we believe anything you say? Our Mother’s punishment will be severe.”

Voryn said it with such dignity, looking wholly convinced of his truth, and his eyes shone with such inner light that it transformed his outward appearance somehow. Nerevar silently admired him. The priestess fell heavily on her knees.

“Azura forgive me, I lied!”

“When did you lie? Tell us the truth now.”

“I lied then and I lied now… But it’s not what you think.”

“These questions are insulting-”

“No, Ashkhan, I’d like to hear what the priestess says,” objected Nerevar.

“I never spoke to the Wise Woman,” admitted Ilmeni with a weary hang of the head. “The gulakhan invited me to share a meal with him after a long journey. He was friendly and I didn’t want to offend him, so I went with him to the yurt. The Ashkhan came later and he told me that he had spoken with the Wise Woman. The Wise Woman was preoccupied, he said. He promised me I could have a conversation with her later, but asked me to tell everyone that I didn’t hear it from him. I understood his misgivings, but I believed him, don’t you see? And I believe him now.”

“Don’t you see what it is, my lord Hortator?” Voryn exclaimed rapturously. “It’s a scheme to mislead us. The priestess is not at fault for any of it. She, too, was deceived by the cunning Ashkhan… I ask the Hortator’s permission to question the girl.”

“I grant my permission.”

“The girl had suffered enough at the hands of the city-dwellers. I won’t allow her to be mocked and further humiliated.” Dun-Ilu was outraged.

“Then I ask permission to speak with the Wise Woman.”

Alandro Sul went to find the Wise Woman of Ahemmusa, but soon he returned empty-handed and explained that the Wise Woman stayed in the camp while the Ashkhan and the gulakhan attended the hearing.

“It’s impermissible, Dun-Ilu,” Nerevar said, loosing forbearance. “In the absence of any compelling evidence, you leave me to decide the outcome on my own… You asked for this hearing and now you make a mockery out of it! Lord Dagoth, I’ll question you myself.”

“I’m at your disposal, my lord.”

 “If I remember it well, you witnessed the whole scene. Did you speak with your brother afterwards?”

“I spoke with him many times. He confessed to everything. He was hunting when he saw the girl and he took her with him by force, intending to make her his slave. He beat her because she disobeyed him, but if he had his way with her against her will, I’d know. He’s not the one to keep such secrets well.”

“Are we to conclude from your answer that something similar happened in the past?”

“Nothing so drastic, my lord, but he was never well-behaved. He whipped a servant who caused no offense or behaved too loosely around another mer’s wife. Perhaps I was too lenient with him, but my failings aren’t being judged today.” The meaningful glance Voryn threw at the Ashkhan didn’t escape Nerevar’s attention.

“It is clear to me that you don’t insist on your brother’s innocence, with the overwhelming evidence to the contrary, lord Dagoth.” Nerevar said with authority, looking at the bleak sky.

“I’d be mad to deny his guilt. It is the extent of his guilt that I question, as is my right by the Laws of our Land.”

“I don’t have any more questions for you, lord Dagoth. Please, take your seat and await my decision. Ashkhan,” Nerevar turned to Dun-Ilu. “To prove the truthfulness of yoor words to me, you’ll have to let the girl or the Wise Woman speak on your behalf. I don’t understand your reluctance. Gilvoth isn’t here. He can’t cause her another offense… Thus, I order you to send someone for them. In your refusal to do so, I’ll read the unequivocal admission of guilt.”

After exchanging a few quiet words with the gulakhan, the Ashkhan beckoned one of his farseers, but Nerevar outstretched his hand towards him. “Wait, Ashkhan, I’ll leave it to Alandro Sul to fetch them. Alandro! Accompany these mer to the Ahemmusa camp and make sure they don’t threaten or otherwise influence the Wise Woman.”

“I understand, my lord. What should I do if they disobey your command?”

“You’re to do nothing whatsoever. Return here as fast as you can and tell us what you witnessed. We’re here to decide the sentence of one Dagoth-Gilvoth, not to dictate to the Ashkhan our will.”

After Alandro Sul and the farseers left, Nerevar retired to his tent. He couldn’t be seen talking to Voryn or his brothers after the hearing began not to invite suspicions and he played a game of dice with one of the Redoran kinsman to distract himself. Voryn was on his mind often as of late – at times, in rather indecent surroundings, but more often than not in fleeting or pleasant recollections of something he had said or done, and in thoughts which caused him anguish. Nerevar compared Voryn to others, vainly, to grasp what attracted him to that extraordinary man, but others were clever, too, and eager to serve him and loyal to a fault. Voryn’s attractiveness wasn’t in one defining trait; it was elusive, frightening and intoxicating – it was fire in his veins and a sweet fetter for his spirit. The mysterious bearded man with an axe was surely laughing at him even when the stars aligned themselves across the heaven’s vault for the advent of the robed Lover.

Such thoughts caused him to lose to the Redoran kinsman and abandon the game of dice altogether. Nerevar left the tent and returned to the seat under the awning. Voryn’s and Dun-Ilu’s seats stood empty and he regretted coming here early, but as he called for the vigilant guard to accompany him back to the tent, he noticed someone hiding behind the draping. It was a young Ashlander girl, large and freckled, in a simple woolen skirt and a matching loose shirt. She fixed her dark, attentive eyes on him and didn’t look away when he asked her to sit by his side in the Ashkhan’s chair – a girl braver than many House nobles.

“Are you the Great Ashkhan?” She asked curiously.  

“And who is this Great Ashkhan?”

She wavered. “He’s someone very important… It’s what my father says. My father’s important, too. He makes everyone happy.”

“And the Great Ashkhan? Does he make everyone happy?”

The girl nodded her curly head. “My father says that the Great Ashkhan came to us when we were starving and weak and he showed us how to be strong. There was a battle a long time ago…” She frowned assiduously. “We fought side by side with the city dwellers and the mechanical men and their creators… Have you ever seen the mechanical men?”

“They are taller than any mer and their skin is made of brass and when they walk, the earth trembles,” Nerevar echoed, looking into the distance.

“Then you are the Great Ashkhan!”

“You’re a clever girl.”

The Hortator hailed the Redoran guard arrayed in bonemold armor and a warm brown cloak suitable for long marches under the open sky. “Sera, I need your cloak,” he said with perfect calm. The guard looked at him and at the Ashlander girl and pursed his lips in disapproval, not hurrying to obey his request. “Sera, your cloak,” Nerevar repeated, insistently, and grimaced.

The guard capitulated before the demand in his gaze – not a sign of a weak or a cowardly mer, for many merited statesmen have capitulated before him just the same. Nerevar wrapped the cloak around the girl’s round shoulders and with satisfaction beheld the creation of his hands and the girl’s adoring, toothy smile. She would remember him in a golden halo of illusory light, fighting alongside mechanical giants and her tribesmen – a man of wisdom, kindness and infinite mercy – and she would tell the story a thousand times, with embellishments and exaggerations, until her words would eclipse the true image of him – a captive of unbridled passions, toying with justice and mercy as he saw fit. For the small price of a cloak, the legend of Nerevar continued to grow.   

Alandro Sul, as Nerevar suspected, returned all by himself and after Dun-Ilu with his gulakhans, Voryn and his brothers gathered under the awning, he told them the following:

“My lord Hortator, hai Resdaynia, to my deep regret I was unable to convince the Wise Woman or the girl to accompany me here. I never saw the girl and the Wise Woman told me that her duties were with the tribe and not ‘to attend to the whims of the Ashkhan’. I asked her then, as you would want me to ask her, if the girl was injured by lord Dagoth’s brother to which she replied she would not ‘speak of her injuries as they have become instruments of political strife’.”

“Well, Ashkhan, I’ve reached a decision,” Nerevar said with a light heart. “In the absence of compelling evidence, I proclaim Dagoth Gilvoth innocent of all crimes but one: he attempted to enslave a free and rightful citizen of Resdayn against her will. For that he is to pay a fine and remain in the Kogoruhn dungeon for thirty-five years. Let it be recorded that the sentence begins today.”

“But, my lord, you can’t allow that dangerous scoundrel to remain with his family!”

“Dun-Ilu, I’ll hold them responsible for disobeying my will, but Dagoth Gilvoth will stay in Kogoruhn. If I allow Gilvoth to be held elsewhere – in the city belonging to House Redoran or House Hlaalu – I will be causing lord Dagoth a grave and unfair injury. Due to the popularity of the lamentable custom, Dagoth Gilvoth may be treated as a valuable hostage by the rival House. I cannot overlook such possibility… And you, lord Dagoth, do you object to my verdict?”

“No, my Hortator, I find it satisfactory,” said Voryn with a strange smile.

***

“Voryn, what happened?” Asked Odros, anxiously pacing up and down the tent. “What have you done?”

 Voryn drank half a glass of Dagoth brandy in a few greedy gulps, not knowing how to answer his brother, and mulled over the Hortator’s more than favorable verdict with a slight feeling of resentment. How more attentive to his ordeals Nerevar had become as soon as he jumped into bed with him! His palm, where Nerevar had kissed it, still remembered the touch of his hot lips and the sweeter was the recollection, the more poignant seemed his present thoughts. And now his bright and shrewd brother felt that something about the verdict was out of place.

‘Don’t do it to yourself,’ thought Voryn. ‘It was the right decision in these circumstances. The Hortator didn’t disrespect tradition and you played your part convincingly.’

“I’ve done nothing shameful to deserve a harsh reprimand, Odros.”

“What have you promised him? Don’t lie to me, brother! I swear on Boethiah’s name, Gilvoth isn’t worth the trouble.”

“I promised him nothing dishonorable,” Voryn defended himself weakly. “I promised him nothing whatsoever. Will you, please, believe me?”

“I’d believe you if you weren’t so wholly taken with him. We entrusted the fate of our House to you. You were the oldest of us, the wisest, the cleverest, and I wish to believe, wholeheartedly, that you still have our best interests in your heart of hearts. But I have my doubts-”

“And this lenient verdict isn’t in our best interests? I remain true to my word. What if I had to fall on my knees and beg the Hortator for it? Will you think any less of me?”

“If you did kneel before him, it wouldn’t be to beg for his lenience. But you wouldn’t tell me, would you? What happened to us?” Odros looked at him pleadingly. “For as long as I’ve known you, I never heard you hint that you’d marry a woman one day.”

“I don’t feel attraction to women. I never made it a secret from you or Vemyn.” His head reeled from all the wine he drank. “Do you want to see me with a woman whom I’ll cause only great misery? If you don’t pity me, pity that poor creature who will be bound to me by the laws of our unforgiving ancestors.”

“Happiness isn’t for the likes of you and I.”

“You’re wrong, my brother. There are sacrifices which aren’t worth making. There’s abject misery which will never give any fruit but more misery. And where misery and sickness fester, Sheogorath always finds his prey... But enough of this! We’ve insulted each other enough for one day.”

“You’re right, Voryn, and I ask for your forgiveness. You’ve proven to me that you haven’t forgotten the honor of our House. If you give me your word that you’ve made no unseemly deals with the Hortator, I'll believe you… Let’s celebrate the conclusion of this unpleasant matter.”

Odros poured him a glass of brandy, but their merry celebration was clouded by a sudden intrusion of a Redoran guard.

“Lord Nerevar sent me to warn you that there’s an ash storm on approach.”

It was unbelievable that an ash storm would strike so soon after a downpour, but when Voryn lifted the drapery, he saw the ominous red glow of the calamity on the horizon. The camp resembled a ravaged scrib nest, men and mer running to and fro, abandoning their tents untouched or hastily hoisting their belongings onto the backs of their guars, and loud screams together with the sharp cracking of the whip were often heard in the ado. Voryn gave a few quick orders and covering his face from the gusts of cold wind, headed towards the Hortator’s tent. The sky darkened quickly, as if Nocturnal left her domain on some whim and threw a thick shawl she slipped off her shoulders over the unguarded firmament.

As Voryn approached the Hortator’s tent, he saw Nerevar talking to a Redoran retainer and Alandro Sul saddling his guar; another Redoran retainer knelt at his feet with his hands tied behind his back, with his entire pose expressing utmost humility. The Hortator caught Voryn’s confused glance and explained:

“The Ashkhan, not without gloating delight, let me know that this mer harassed one of the Ashlanders and that it came to a rough fight. A few hours ago, I ordered him to give his cloak to an Ashlander girl… What foolery!” He exclaimed angrily. “We’re on the sacred ground. I’ll have him kiss Molag Bal’s feet and then he’ll be flogged in front of an eager crowd.”

“I understand your frustration, my lord,” said Voryn, “but the ash storm will be upon us soon. I advise we wait in Kogoruhn till it’s over.”

“I was on my way to see Dumac, and I accept your invitation… But what foolery, don’t you think! By Azura, I’ll make an example out of him. He won’t soon forget-”

“My lord, it’ll be wiser if I gave you the amulet of recall. Leave the animals and provisions with Alandro Sul.”

“Of course, whatever you think is necessary…”

Voryn heaved a sigh of relief and put a small amulet into the Hortator’s warm palm. “Aren’t you coming, too?” He asked, hesitant.

“I’m in no danger, my lord,” said Voryn. “If the storm overtakes us, I’ll cast the spell of recall, but I’m needed here.”

“I trust you will take good care of that s’wit.” Nerevar waved his arm angrily and slipped the amulet around his neck, disappearing in a flash of ghostly light.

To the inevitable coming of the storm testified the familiar taste of ash on his tongue and the awful crimson tint of the heavy clouds which hung low and ill-boding over the Ashlands, swelling with fire and madness. Cursing the unpredictable foul weather of the Ashlands, Voryn found Odros and spoke to him briefly before setting out to give last orders to the resplendent suite which now looked quite dejected.  

“Cover the guar’s eyes,” he told them. “It will slow us down and you’ll have to guide and calm the animals with magic, but if ash in the air drives them out of their wits, we won’t make it to Kogoruhn in time.”

The Indoril guard appeared particularly frightened by the ash storm, for many of them rarely left the dependable walls of Mournhold, and a storm of such magnitude in the wilderness was far more eerie than anything they would witness from a window of a cozy house. But to Voryn such storms weren’t a novelty and from the intensity of the red glow he could with some certainty predict when the trouble would blow over. ‘It’s a nasty one,’ he thought wearily. ‘I give it three days.’

He wasn’t wrong this time: the ash storm lasted three days and three nights like clockwork, and on the dawn of the fourth day, the sky cleared and the unruly ash was laid to rest.

***

Whilst the ash storm raged to its heart content, the Hortator stayed at Kogoruhn and Voryn who always happily gave him shelter and enjoyed his company didn’t think his sudden visit would be drastically different than what he was accustomed to expect from his old friend. Voryn imagined pleasant conversations after dinner and thinly-veiled flirting and long sleepless nights for which he would have to polish his knowledge of illusion magic, weaving around himself a cocoon of invisibility and silence, but to their first dinner with his brothers, his Hortator came out in a dazzling emerald robe, abounding in glittering precious stones, with a deep neckline embroidered in gold and wide, heavy sleeves. He stood out, in an odd and awkward way, among his brothers in modest dark attires and drew to himself befuddled and perplexed stares to which he dauntlessly seemed to pay no heed. Voryn who lost two chap’thil and four guars to the ash storm tried to impart to their meal a solemn and mournful character, but the blinding dazzle of Nerevar’s garments and his indiscreet challenge to prescribed etiquette well-nigh made a mockery of his intentions. If the Hortator’s sole intention was to make an indelible impression on his brothers, he had succeeded in his endeavors, yet that impression wouldn’t earn him deference among the staunch champions of tradition and artless modesty. Voryn believed that Nerevar understood his disapproval of the Mournhold court and its gaudy fashion, but gazing at his unwelcome brilliance and proud poise, he wasn’t sure of it. Nerevar stubbornly avoided looking him in the eye and, with natural ease, struck up a conversation with Vemyn, pretending to be unaware that it was awfully quiet in the hall after his memorable entrance. Voryn began to dread the dinner and all the breakfasts and dinners he would share with his Hortator for the next few days, and he was justified in his misgivings. As Voryn saw it, Nerevar tried too hard to convince everyone that he didn't fancy him much, yet made it his goal to get to know his brothers whose company he never sought before; his outward appearance conflicted with his actions and his actions conflicted with his schemes unless it was all a part of some elaborate design whose purpose Voryn couldn’t begin to grasp.  

It frustrated and fascinated the grandmaster of House Dagoth that after many years spent by the Hortator’s side in war and in celebration, ruling Resdayn and defending it from the outlanders, he would shatter all of his anticipations and preconceived notions with a single hasty deed. Perhaps it was no elaborate scheme at all but one of his ‘harmless frolics’ with which he amused himself now and then and which were perceived as cruel jests by the unsuspecting participants.

After dinner, Voryn overheard a conversation between the Hortator and his brother Araynys.

“I heard you took up alchemy practices with your brother,” said Nerevar. Voryn did remember telling him once about the incident with the Hunger set loose in his bedchamber to hear his laughter.

“Did Voryn mention it? I’m flattered serjo, truly. I’m not very good at it, but Voryn is a patient teacher.” And Araynys smiled his absent-minded, dreamy smile.

“Well, I heard alchemy is a bit unpleasant, but as a school of magic, it’s incredibly useful. If you need to appear more attractive in someone’s eyes or more imposing, a potion can be irreplaceable, but you would do well to remember when you wake up next to someone in the morning that all the charm and appeal will wear off by then. I can tell you of a few mishaps…” And Nerevar said it in such a familiar manner and leaned over to him in so intimate a way, as if they had been closest of friends for many years, that Araynys who never showed any interest in men blushed and hurried to excuse himself.

Voryn had enough patience for one day.

Dagoth Endus was a sober, sensible mer with a strong-willed wife he adored and whom he allowed to run all the affairs of his comberry plantation while he spent most of his time improving upon the many recipes of ancient Dagoth brandy. Nerevar didn’t try to appear charming or seductive to him, but with feigned curiosity made inquiries into the secrets of wine-making and with feigned enthusiasm listened to the meticulous descriptions of brewing tricks. Endus couldn’t boast of a perspicacious mind and he didn’t notice the expression of boredom on the Hortator’s face, finding himself to be more well-disposed towards Nerevar as the conversation went on. By the end of it, he begged the Hortator to promise him he’d visit his family one day and taste some of the most delicious wines he had the pleasure to try.

All the while, Voryn sought solitude to devote himself to the study of ancient Velothi scrolls he found in the bowels of his library. The cryptic magic of the first Velothi intrigued him greatly and after his late injuries, it occurred to him with frightening clarity that he couldn’t go on serving Nerevar if one of these injuries, Azura forbid, were fatal. He didn’t seek death and he was too young to spend the rest of his life bedridden. For the answers to his grievances, he turned to the powerful half-forgotten magic which was in use when the Velothi towers stood numerous and proud under the Resdayn sky, but there was little hope for him to find peace even in his ancestral home. Odros was suspicious of him since the hearing and soon Voryn was at his wits end.

And so he went to see his Hortator.

“My lord, your behavior is scandalous,” Voryn said plainly. Those words didn’t come easy to him, but his patience had run dry and he didn’t think it necessary to prettify the truth.

Nerevar scribbled something on a piece of parchment which looked like a map of Molag Amur, but his astringent words gave him pause.

“I wished to strongly impress your brothers and I daresay-”

“They won’t forget your visit, I assure you. But is it the sort of impression you want to leave on them? My lord, do you hold nothing sacred?”

“Sacred? It’s curious that you ask. Do you think they won’t envy you if you told them the truth? Do you think they won’t question your every decision if they knew where you spent that one night? That one night!.. Boethiah teaches us that our will and ambitions are sacred.”

“Nerevar,” he said despairingly. “Do we always live by the precepts of the Daedric Princes? If you deliberately seek faults, you’ll find them aplenty. My brothers… aren’t without grave shortcomings, but I love them dearly and I will lay down my life for my House. I want you to love them, too, and your love to inspire loyalty in them and unite our Houses with bonds which are stronger than ties of marriage or alliance. It pains me to see you treat them with little respect…”

“Well, what should I do?”

“Come with me, I want to show you something... And cover your face. The storm hasn’t slackened yet.”

They put on worn robes and snuck out of Kogoruhn through the kitchens. Under the dark-red sky, they took a narrow path downhill until they reached a pile of stones, with the smaller stones carefully arranged atop the larger stones, and there Voryn dove into a shallow ravine to which clung here and there withered vines of the bittergreen plant. The wind howled and shrieked above them, but in the gorge it couldn’t break loose and quietened down a bit. Thick triumphant ash covered the stony ground, but it couldn’t conceal a tall three-edged shrine painted in red and ochre hues with a depiction of one of the Three Daedra on each side. Underneath it some generous soul left a few coda flowers, but their luster had long since dimmed and their petals fell prey to rot and fiery ash.

“Who else knows about it?” Muttered Voryn under his breath, looking round himself.

Nerevar squatted down by the shrine, casting a simple illumination spell, and examined it thoroughly.

“What did you say, Voryn?”

“I never left flowers here,” answered Voryn, his voice muffled by the thick layer of cloth which covered his whole face. “It was Araynys, I fancy, but he couldn't know… I never showed it to anyone. My mother’s spirit guessed its purpose, but even she didn’t suspect where I built it.”

“You speak in riddles, my old friend. Why are we here?”

“It’s a shrine to which I bound the spirit of my father. You never knew him, but he wouldn’t have listened to your fervent speeches. He surrendered Kogoruhn to the Nedic Jarl, but he wasn't satisfied with his standing of a defeated and humiliated House lord, he was a slave to senseless ambitions. He offered his services to the king of Skyrim, to Hoaga. You remember that wretched man. My older brother challenged him for his title of grandmaster and they fought in the Arena… I once told you, didn’t I? I saw him fall… But it was I who encouraged him to issue that challenge! I should have fought father myself, not schemed behind his back…” Voryn clenched his fists. “This shrine where I doomed Navam’s soul to eternal disgrace is my pledge to my House that for as long as I am its grandmaster, I will not rest until our enemies are dust. I never told my brothers… They’ll beg me to release him. Will you?”

“It’s not my place to ask anything of you.”

“And yet I want to hear your thoughts.”

“I was never properly educated in the history of the Great Houses and their endless quarrels. Your bitter strife with your father is no concern of mine. He is the spirit of your ancestor, yet he bent the knee to Hoag and for that he won’t have my forgiveness… He wouldn’t approve of me, you said? Well, it’s a pity. As Vivec likes to say, a ruling king needs no approval.” Nerevar took a step towards him and enfolded him in his arms. “I’d kiss you, but I don’t want to cough for a week.”

“You’re prudence incarnate today, my lord.” For as long as Nerevar’s head rested on his chest, the storm had grown quiet and distant.

“Is the spirit… angry?”

“I’m afraid he’s always angry as of late. Your pranks, my lord, don’t bother him.” _And yet he raves and screams and curses you, flesh of his flesh, blood of his blood…_

“…I understood your point, Voryn,” Nerevar would tell him later and wear one of his dark-blue robes and raise his hand now and again to shake off ash flakes from his hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Kill three kagouti with one arrow_ \- an Ashlander idiomatic expression equivalent to our 'kill two birds with one stone' as invented by yours truly. Its origin can be traced back to late Merethic era when one bold gulakhan decided he wanted to be an Ashkhan after the previous Ashkhan died. He was a prodigious hunter and he boasted that he could kill 10 kagouti with one arrow. No one believed him until they gathered 10 kagouti in a pen and he shot one arrow and killed all 10 of them at once. He was in possession of Daedric artifacts - the arrow and a gauntlet - of Hircine. Later the new Ashkhan, ironically, met his end during a large kagouti hunt. What Hircine gives, he also takes back.
> 
> Ever since then no one could repeat the feat of killing 10 kagouti with one arrow and the phrase assumed a more metaphorical meaning of achieving a few goals with one move. 
> 
> _Kashtungatz_ \- my (perhaps poor) attempt to rename all citadels in the crater into their original Dwemer names. This one is Vemynal. 
> 
> You can thank Mari/Vralaka for the brilliant concept of Nerevar's emerald 'peacock' robe, I cannot take credit for its invention :)


	14. Chapter 14

** Chapter 12: The Webspinner **

Nerevar stepped out of the bathtub separated from the rest of the room with a screen upon which a branchy tree blossomed, and drank the potion Voryn brewed for him from sweet-scented herbs and fresh trama root – invigorative and heady like a strong wine. His eyes lingered on Voryn, wandering from his narrow hips to the small dark nipples which showed brazenly through the weightless gauze of his robe, to the span of his graceful shoulders and the charming curvature of his sooty neck, like a stroke of a painter’s brush from the collarbone to the determined chin, and his full lips in which was concealed all his sternness, all his sweetness. Voryn was tall and lean but not to the extent Nerevar would call frail and his endearing qualities were his proud poise and noble manners which as though softened his angular figure. Nerevar seated himself on the bed and flipped through the book which was left open on the table – it was one of those unpopular historical tales of the conflicts between House Indoril and House Dres in the late Merethic era. Its author, serjo Dantis of House Redoran, eloquently depicted the most ‘odious’ villains of his time – the grandmasters of the rival houses – and though his tale was full of sharp-witted sneers and spiteful remarks, he was surprisingly honest at times. Perhaps his honest comparison of the noble Houses to the ‘petty squabbling hags’ earned him derision and resentment from his peers.

“We ought to talk about something,” said Nerevar at last, “but don’t worry, I won’t ask about your father or insist on continuing our argument about Mephala.”

“It’s a pity, I say. It was a most curious argument.” Voryn filled one tiny vial with his wondrous brew and poured clear odorless liquid into another. Nerevar was astonished that his friend could find anything in the artistic disorder of his dimly-lit bedroom, heaped up with books, artifacts and alchemical accessories. The altar to the Three Daedra was unnoticeable in this mess, hiding behind the low stool upon which Voryn stood to reach the top shelf of the cabinet where he kept empty phials and ingredients.

“Voryn, my friend, why aren’t you married yet? Don’t tell me that no one… coveted you, with all your incontestable delights.”

“Why the sudden interest in my private life?” The unabashed straightforwardness of his question took Voryn unawares. “It’s as if you and Odros are in collusion… A few women desired to shackle me with marital ties, but you can’t imagine how quickly their zeal wanes when their advances are met with indifference. But it was a long time ago. Over the years I’ve acquired a reputation of an inveterate loner.”

“Call it idle curiosity. I looked at you just this moment and it occurred to me that with your wealth and figure, you’d have no end of women.”

“For pity’s sake! One of those women was quite persistent if you must know, though she set her sights on my wealth rather than my… ‘incontestable delights’. A charming expression! But I think soberly and I never entertained a suggestion of an arranged marriage. I keep thinking of a terrible and sad example set by someone I cherish dearly...”

“Who?”

Voryn looked him in the eye, daring and derisive. “Why, you, of course, my lord. You’re my guest in Vvardenfell and while you spend an awful lot of time in my bedroom, your wife receives her lover in her chambers in Mournhold. If that is to be my lot, I’ll anticipate the futility of it and never marry at all.”

“It’s hard to argue with you,” admitted Nerevar. “I ask that you forget my silly question. It wasn’t on my mind until I got distracted by your provocative teasing dress.”

“Let me change into something more modest.” Standing with his back to the bed, Voryn slipped out of his robe, exposing boldly his well-shaped buttocks, and Nerevar averted his face from him. “Don’t look away! I’m not embarrassed by your intense longing,” Voryn added with gentle reproach. “If only it didn’t take you so long to follow your inclinations!”

“You often look back, Voryn, but the past is empty of promises. The sweetness of old dreams! The lightness of burdens upon our shoulders! It’s all nonsense… The past will always appear deceivingly attractive to us – it has that attractiveness of a pretty illusion. The only mystery worth considering is our future. The future is vibrant, thrilling, invigorating and unwritten. Today in this room, we write it, and tomorrow when we meet with Dumac, we’ll write it. I’d like to think that the capricious mistress victory will be ours in the end.” Nerevar wasn’t satisfied with his answer and went on, “I was young and impulsive when we first met. What if I didn’t marry Almalexia because we had an affair?”

“You wouldn’t forsake the Land for me-”

“So you think! It’s easy for you, with that damnable disposition to self-abnegation, to say that I was capable of choosing wisely and nobly. I couldn’t let my passions contest with each other…” Nerevar fell silent, succumbing to inexplicable frustration. 

Voryn’s affectionate glance seemed to say to him: ‘ _You’re still young and hot-headed, my lord_.’

Alandro Sul squeezed himself through the door, and the presence of his shield-companion of whom he all but forgot spared the Hortator the need to explain himself to Voryn. Alandro scrubbed the floor and emptied the tub, pretending not to notice anything unusual in Voryn’s appearance or in the Hortator’s strained pose, and ignored the awkward silence in the room. He was a good lad, loyal and taciturn and immoderately curios insofar as all young men were curious, and Nerevar wasn’t worried that he harbored naïve suspicions about his companionship with Voryn. When he chose his future shield-bearer from the crowd of Ashlander boys and girls, he didn’t hesitate with Alandro who stood before him gangly, clumsy and teary-eyed and said: “Before my Ashkhan, before my Land, before my people, I swear loyalty to you, Hortator.”

Voryn arranged the many-colored flasks and vials in some order on the shelves until Alandro Sul left and sat on the edge of the bed with that solemn expression upon his countenance which testified to his desire to continue their conversation.

“Voryn, my sweet Voryn,” said Nerevar, “let’s not rake over the old ashes. You know I’m not too fond of reminiscing when I have to worry about our future.”

“What worries you?”

“The Council is in a stalemate... It’s nothing but ennui. Who will be the head of House Dres? It’s out of my hands now. Some upstart will pave a road to the desired seat of power with corpses. All I can do is pray that it won’t be a clever upstart. I much prefer ambition to cleverness… And there’s the thorn in my side, Galmis-”

“I never understood this about you, Nerevar,” interrupted him Voryn. “What do you want? Why can’t you hire an assassin? There’s Morag Tong or if you prefer, I can find you a few trusted and capable swords for hire. Or you can kidnap one of his daughters… He has many daughters he dreams to marry off to the nobles of other Great Houses. He came to me once, offering his daughter’s hand to Araynys with only ten thousand gold pieces as a dowry. What effrontery!”

“You make light of the animosity he feels towards me. Perhaps he doesn’t know I shagged his mother, but his hatred of me is not groundless. He wants me dead and he’s willing to sacrifice the lives of his daughters if that sacrifice would usher in the end of my reign… No, I’ll rid myself of him before he gets the chance to undo all my accomplishments.”

“So why don’t you wish to employ Morag Tong? I don’t understand-”

“Why don’t you understand that I can’t be so unsubtle?” Nerevar exclaimed with disappointment. “I can’t be tied to the unsavory murder of a Hlaalu Grandmaster. Think, Voryn! Other grandmasters and archmagisters shouldn’t fear me without cause. Senseless fear drives them to treason and rebellion… If he dies suddenly and it’s deemed a tragic fortuity, and if someone finds on his body an incriminating letter which implicates his involvement in some scheme, in the confusion few will think to accuse me.”

“It’s too risky. You’ll need to forge evidence,” Voryn said dryly.

“Mephala teaches us the patience of a spider. I obtained the support of one of the Ashkhans in anticipation of this moment. You’ll have a part in this scheme, too, now that Galmis at last made a mistake... We all have it in common, hypocrites and saints. We err.” Nerevar felt a tiny spark of excitement. “Before chil’a I briefly met with Dinara. I favored her to win and it appears I wasn’t wrong about her strength of mind. What irony, don’t you think?.. But where was I? I saw Galmis on that day in Dinara’s private quarters and we exchanged a few unflattering remarks. All that nonsense about ‘frivolities’… ”

“What of it? Galmis couldn’t know that she had conspired to bring Mournhold to ruin. He may be a false friend, but he’d never side with anyone who openly serves the House of Troubles.”

“He’s slippery as a slaughterfish. I’m convinced that to get rid of me he’d sell his mother’s soul to Molag Bal, but I don’t appeal to you in search of truth. If he didn’t conspire with Dinara, we’ll make it appear that he did. A letter written with his hand, sealed with his seal would instill doubts into the most hardened of skeptics.”

“And I’m convinced that a traditional vial of poison would do the trick and that your scheme is dangerous.” Voryn’s dark, expressive eyes showed sincere apprehension. “I’ll get you that letter, but allow me to prepare poison just in case.”

“What’s the harm in prudence? Prepare the poison.” Nerevar buried his face in the soft pillow which smelled of some faint fragrance. He felt no hatred towards Galmis of House Hlaalu who, in his misguided way, loved their severe, beautiful Resdayn from the distant shores of Dagon Fel to the fetid swamps of Black Marsh, but – alas! – there was only one Resdayn and it belonged to him by the right of conquest, daring and enterprise. It was love that made them implacable enemies; offenses could be forgiven and differences forgotten, but that blind, fierce and cruel love doomed them to a sorrowful fate.  

“Your body is like a deep, winding river,” Voryn murmured. He lay down by Nerevar’s side and his warm hand absent-mindedly roved about the Hortator’s back, from the shoulders to the waistline, lingering as if in deep apprehension on the spot where an ugly scar marred his skin. “Your back is the riverbed enclosed in the narrow banks of your arms, and your legs are rivulets that flow into it. Your hair is a waterfall when you loosen it. And your shoulders… your shoulders are broad and strong, for an invisible but heavy burden was laid upon them.”

“For the love of Mephala, Voryn!” Exclaimed Nerevar, laughing. “You’re incorrigible. What are you about?”

He leaned over his lover, and their bodies interwove – Nerevar’s hips snugly fit between Voryn’s legs, Nerevar’s chin rested on Voryn’s breast.

“I expressed my admiration of you… Does it have to make sense?”

Voryn lay still underneath him with a blissful expression upon his face, breathing unevenly, and Nerevar slowly kissed him on the lips as if to savor that unforgettable feeling of inseparability and wholeness with someone who didn’t share a bed with him to fulfill an obligation, who wasn’t a stranger or an object of a fleeting passion. In a tumultuous, long life, it was easy to lose sight of faces, but this feeling he could never banish from memory, or Voryn’s lips which were just as unforgettably, forbiddingly sweet. And into those lips Nerevar muttered: “I want to give myself up to you tonight.”

There was an awkward pause which was more eloquent than any words before Voryn spoke. “Isn’t there an unwritten rule that the kings don’t spread their legs before anyone?”

“Where have you heard such nonsense? We're in Mephala’s kingdom. Here there are no kings or their subjects and one rightful queen.”

Mephala (the full-bosomed, broad-hipped Mephala) told prophet Veloth:

“Worship me with a dagger coated in venom and lips wet from spilled seed; worship me in the shadows, when blood sprinkles the earth, and worship me on the bed sheets between your lover’s legs. Eight are the ways of man, eight are the doors to my house, but you’ll come to me through the Third and Sixth. Give me your screams, your lust, your undying thirst for secrets and I’ll show you the way. Embody splendor in your name. Be made and unmade in my image.”

Voryn was so obliging and tender that he seemed frightened, but Nerevar had a burning want to be with him and to see that strained uncertain grimace which distorted Voryn’s face vanish when he was inside of him, and to hear Voryn’s ragged breath and whisper ‘Did I satisfy you?’ was more worthwhile than Nerevar imagined.   

When Nerevar fell asleep, limp and sated, on Voryn’s shoulder, he had a strange dream and in it he walked the ghostly halls of the Third Strand of the Spiral Skein and made love to Voryn on the bedding of soft white maggots and danced with Mephala upon a tall pile of corpses with familiar faces. The Hortator woke up drenched in cold sweat, but the sheets underneath him weren’t soaked in blood and he didn’t see any maggots – only Voryn’s serene face caressed by a light predawn shadow. Voryn’s room was windowless, but Nerevar felt it with his whole being that the hour of Azura was near and he trembled, overcome with sudden uneasiness. He never considered himself particularly impressionable or superstitious, but he could no longer ignore the signs or doubt Vivec’s words that Mephala, too, took a lively interest in the affairs of mortals. He vainly asked himself over and over what awoke the Webspinner’s insatiable curiosity and, filled with awe, turned his eyes to the invisible horizon.

***

Voryn and Nerevar left Kogoruhn on the following bleak morning and met with Dumac in Galom Daeus – an Observatory the Dwemer were building in the heart of Molag Amur where, Kagrenac boasted, his engineers would study and predict weather; but when they passed a sharp bend in the road, only a threadbare cupola with large holes in its roof came into view and another city outside of it erected from nets and wooden scaffolding. Dumac took after Nerevar and visited his colonies once in every few years, seeing that it was sensible to remind the haughty Protectors and Generals that their loyalties lay with him if they had forgotten about their duties. The Dwemer colonies were independent at large, enjoying the privileges Chimer cities didn’t have, and it was difficult for Dumac to assert his authority in the Dwemer Council, though he didn’t seem concerned with the fragility of his power for as long as he could stave off revolt.

Dumac had locked himself in the meditation chamber before their arrival. The life of a Dwemer was unhurried and orderly and his tasks required utmost concentration, whether magic or smithcraft, or martial art, or lawmaking. In his free hours, Dumac – a warrior and a leader to the marrow of his bones – enjoyed racking his brain over various logical riddles. Only Dwemer understood the attractiveness of such habit, and Dumac was faithful to his habits, preferring to all riddles a large cube with a different letter inscribed on each of its six sides which formed the word “ENIGMA”. After he completed the puzzle, Dumac would rotate the small corner cubes which were held together with tiny magnets, mixing up the letters, and put them back in proper order.

After the Hortator dismounted, a corpulent Dwemer with a lush red beard which, unbraided, cascaded onto his expensive robe and massive stomach, hurried to greet them. He introduced himself as Lord Leftunch, the future Protector of Galom Daeus.

“We didn’t expect you so soon,” he said, drawling in a dignified manner, as if it gave him pleasure to hear himself speak. “The king meditates upon important matters and he wishes to be left alone for a while. But don’t worry, our lord is farsighted. He ordered me to show our guests the Observatory.”

Following lord Leftunch upon his heels, they reached the inner walls and a round iron gate in front of which stood an enormous crossbow taller than the tallest of mer. The gate was ajar and round the crossbow gathered an impressive crowd of Dwemer in dark robes upon which were thrown ornamental shawls of a lighter color. The Dwemer made way for them, and Nerevar heard fragments of a heated argument.

“…I am telling you, distinguished Architect Razak, that the proportions are all wrong. An egregious error crept up in your calculations! The entire structure will collapse upon itself if we-”

“Engineer Naris, with all due respect to your gray hairs, I checked my notes twice – nay, thrice! – and there was no error. Do you suggest that the mistake is in the design? The Chief Tonal Architect himself looked over it!”

“Are you no different than those lickspittles in Kherakah who believe that Kagrenac is infallible? Have you no mind of your own?”

Voryn and Nerevar exchanged amazed glances and dove under the arch which marked the entrance to the Observatory. The future Protector, groaning and complaining about something under his breath, climbed the steep stairs and Nerevar had the time to scrutinize a strange device which was mounted atop a tripod in the midst of the room. It had a shape of a long tube inclined so that the wider end of it was farthest from the ground and to its narrow end was attached an azimuth disk. Nerevar wasn’t well-versed in the Dwemer magecraft and he couldn’t guess the purpose of the device on the tripod, but he had often seen azimuth disks among the possessions of chief engineers and Tonal Architects.

“We call it a Scope,” eagerly explained Leftunch. “Six hundred years ago Bhumunz Zanchu invented a lens, and engineer Kagrenac perfected it soon after he became Tonal Architect. Don’t listen to the ignoramuses who smear his good name out of jealousy… With it we saw far into the void.” He fell silent, fondly stroking his lush beard. “It isn't my intention to bore you with abstruse theories.”

“Please, do go on, I insist,” objected Voryn.

Nerevar winced at the thought of listening to these pundits talk profusely about magic and the nature of all things, and other matters which were incomprehensible to him. Azura’s priests taught young Nerevar to read and write, but the art of war he learned from men and lawmaking from the haughty Altmer, and swordsmanship from Redguards, and books he devoured under the dim light of an illusion spell were his only teachers. He couldn’t learn magic all on his own, though not for lack of want; even Voryn with his remarkable talent, tenacity and self-mastery studied it under the care and tutelage of the best teachers in the realm.

“I’m surprised to say the least! Your kind rarely expresses interest in the works of Architect Zanchu.”

“Architect Zanchu studied the Earth Bones and I learned illusion magic from a Telvanni wizard. He constructed a device which changed the flow of illusive energies and made magic accessible to anyone. But the ruling principles are the same.”

“How far can you see with your magic?”

“Magic knows no boundaries, but not every sorcerer can cast a spell so intricate or handle the power so vast.”

“Do you admit, hence, that our devices are superior to your craft as you’re not required to cast spells each time you need to use them?”

“No, lord Leftunch,” said Voryn with an outraged look, “you’re forgetting the principal law of magic. You expend your magicka or you resort to storing it in soul gems and enchanted items. But the power necessary to cast a spell doesn’t come from nowhere and doesn’t vanish into nothingness. I theorize that you make use of the Red Mountain as the boundless source of energy and perhaps one day you’ll drain it like an empty soul gem.”

“A curious albeit erroneous conclusion,” said Leftunch, smiling into his beard.

Voryn seemed captivated by the conversation, feigning anger and sullenness out of habit, and it overjoyed Nerevar to him in the company of a Dwemer. He didn't once give up on reconciling them. From a few old scrolls and stories, Nerevar concluded that before the Nords invaded Resdayn, Voryn’s ancestors and their Dwemer neighbors were at odds with each other. Voryn’s grandmother was slain in a skirmish with the Dwemer, and his father asked House Redoran for help to fend them off, but after a brief and bloody confrontation, fragile peace prevailed for a few decades. Voryn didn’t nurse a bitter grudge, but he wasn’t willing to put his trust in Dumac, keeping aloof from the struggle which was moved from the battlefield to the Council chambers. Even so Nerevar suspected for quite some time that Voryn had a lot in common with the Dwemer and hoped his wiles would one day bear fruit.

They reached the top of the stairs, and Leftunch showed them into a room with a low ceiling which was allotted to a library. There were pipes running along the walls and alongside them were placed small oblong luminaries which emanated soft yellowish light. The door opened and closed with an elaborate mechanism consisting of counterweights and cogwheels, and once it was tightly shut, it wouldn’t be possible to breach it from the other side without a battering ram.

They seated themselves around a stone table and through the barely visible door on the other side entered Dumac, wearing a heavy gilded robe and a wide smile which didn’t match it in solemnity. Nerevar greeted him warmly and even Voryn couldn’t refrain from an awkward albeit cordial clasp of hands. The Dwemer king snapped his fingers and Leftunch soundlessly vanished from sight but not before he touched two Dwarven spheres which rolled towards the door – two unseeing, unhearing, unquestioning guards.

“Nerevar, to tell you the truth, I was expecting but you,” said Dumac when Leftunch was out of earshot.

Voryn twisted his lips and there would have been another heated argument if Nerevar didn’t squeeze his hand under the table.    

“Dumac, he came of his own will. And I never knew you to be a rude host… I intend to raze Bal Ur to the ground-”

“My lord, that’s the first time I’m hearing about it!”

It came to Nerevar in a moment of frenetic inspiration and he couldn’t get it off his mind: the more he thought about it, the more attractive the idea became to him and he yearned to be unshakeable in his faith.  

“I’ve only decided on it now, old friend. I don’t wish to keep anything from the both of you. You were with me when Molag Bal invaded Mournhold, but with his brazen attack, he gave me an idea. What if I answer slaughter with slaughter?”

“Molag Bal holed up in Coldharbor and it’s too reckless even for you, my lord, to consider an intrusion into those accursed lands.”

“That’s what I thought, too, but then a name surfaced in my memory.”

“Bal Ur,” echoed Dumac.

“It’s an enormous site of worship with dozens of priests lifting up their prayers to the King of Brutality. Who knows what we will find there? I ordered Vivec to find Dinara, believing her to be the key to the conundrum, but these long journeys did me more good than months of confinement in the palace. A change of scenery is wholesome to my mind... And if we find nothing, Molag Bal won’t tolerate such effrontery. Imagine if we desecrated Holamayan!”

Voryn paled at the unpleasant thought. “His vengeance will be terrible.”

“Quite the contrary, he’ll be powerless and powerlessness will drive him into a frenzy. That stunt with the gate in the Arena was years in the making. He took us by surprise and wounded us deeply, but when we march on Bal Ur, he won’t be able to interfere. He’ll watch helplessly as that thrice-damned place burns to the ground.”

“You don’t need to convince me. I was under the impression that we’d be discussing our common interests in Molag Amur, but I see you’re wholly taken up with this new enterprise.”

“Not at all, Dumac,” objected Nerevar, spreading a map on the table. “I never abandoned my dream to conquer this land from the inhospitable shores of Solstheim to the borders of Shadowfen – and not only its people! No, I want to subjugate the land itself, with its barren wastelands and impassable swamps. There’s nothing more important to me than that dream!” The Hortator came to his senses and added quietly, “I marked a few spots on this map where we can build a village and a plantation. Show them to Kagrenac or one of his Architects. The soil is rocky and infertile, but if your irrigation marvel is half as good as your engineers describe it, we’ll succeed, I am sure of it.”

“Speaking of Kagrenac, I asked him about the nix hounds.”

“Nix hounds?.. Ah, forgive me, I nearly forgot.” Voryn shook his head, incredulously, and Nerevar thought it fit to explain himself. “It’s not an important discovery. I had a hunch-”

“Actually, there is more to it than we thought at the time. Kagrenac dismissed it as nonsense at first, but later he told me that the question bothered him for days and he gave in to curiosity. He doesn’t know how the nix hounds came to mainland. He supposes they had sneaked onto a merchant boat. But he is certain that fear drove them to seek refuge in Grazelands and on the Bitter Coast, far away from Molag Amur.” Dumac drummed his fingers on the tabletop, gathering his thoughts. “The Red Mountain is unstable and unpredictable, that’s the truth. It’s asleep one day and on the next day it sputters fire like a temperamental wife. Kagrenac thinks these animals sense the tremors and leave the Ashlands in fear of an eruption.”

“Will it erupt?”

“It’s inevitable, Lord High Councilor, but it can happen tomorrow or hundreds of years after you and I are dead.”

They sat in silence for a while, brooding over burdensome matters; Dumac perused the map of Molag Amur, Voryn idly studied the ceiling, and Nerevar twisted his head round, counting the immovable Dwemer spheres in the niches between the empty shelves.  

“I propose we discuss the issues at present,” the Dwemer king said at last. “We can’t worry about an eruption which may not even occur in our lifetime, so let’s forget about it for now. When will you attack Bal Ur?”

“I’ll have to speak with my queen and the Council, but I expect to depart from Mournhold by the end of spring if weather permits us. I’ll also need a hundred mortars from you, Dumac.”

“An entire hundred? I suppose I can send a few from Nchuleftingth.”

“If my lord wishes it, we’ll burn Bal Ur to ash without mortars,” proudly remarked Voryn.

“I’ve already agreed to send them! By fifteen-and-one tones, Nerevar, why does your Councilor think it necessary to contradict my every word?”

“I’m certain his intentions are noble,” said Nerevar, darting a withering glance at Voryn. His overzealous Councilor understood that he had made a foolish blunder, and they spent the next half an hour placating Dumac’s ire.

Nerevar never abandoned hope to reconcile them, but from time to time he wished Voryn would meet him half-way if nothing else.  

***

Voryn’s journey from Galom Daeus to Kogoruhn was uneventful but tedious without Nerevar to keep him company and entertain him with his dry wit. Their parting was inevitable, but no sooner had the Hortator’s retinue disappeared amidst the stony hills than Voryn was overcome with ennui. As they said their farewells, Nerevar suddenly asked him:

 “Why did you accompany me to Galom Daeus?”

Voryn couldn’t find the right words to say. “I didn’t change my mind,” he mumbled. “I don’t consider Dumac worthy of my trust, but when I asked you to treat my brothers with respect and talked on and on about love and loyalty, you understood. And I… I couldn’t show you the same courtesy. I suppose it’s a poor explanation.”

Voryn felt ill at ease, climbing into a guar-drawn cart. He requested a scroll of parchment and writing materials, intending to sketch Nerevar’s profile to idle away his time, but he was a rather terrible artist and his time was better spent on creating a deadly poison for Galmis. The head of House Dagoth wrote down a list of potent ingredients – void salts, daedra hearts, emerald dust – and added wolfsbane petals with a question mark at the end and a note which read:

> _wolfsbane petals, qt. 3, very rare, the flower is native to Solstheim_

Then Voryn remembered that Vemyn wanted to travel to Solstheim to buy furs which he’d later trade to the Ashlanders for tanned guar hides, and he interpreted it as a favorable sign. Forging a letter from Galmis seemed to him a mere nothing. When he was back in the familiar comfort of his room, he sat down at the table and wrote a vague, meaningless letter to Galmis, offering to buy three hundred guar from him for a miserably low price. If Galmis wrote him a short response and impressed his personal seal on it, Voryn would bring it to a trustworthy forger who’d make a fabrication indistinguishable from the real letter. After he gave the message to a guar rider, he visited Vemyn who was notable for his piety and spent many hours at the Temple, contemplating the nature of the Daedra Lords or rewriting old books with his notations on the margins. Their conversation happened to be rather curious.

“Vemyn, may I ask a favor of you?” Said Voryn, entering a dark room where Vemyn pored over the dusty tomes. It was a small Temple library with a few shelves set against the walls and a single table by the window through which in such late hour shone pale moonlight, casting an eerie glow across the polished surface. On the table lay a manuscript surrounded by paunchy bottles with many-colored ink and separated them a pile of brushes of different sizes and thickness. Vemyn sat at the table, as usual, with a vacant look upon his face and twiddled a tiny brush about his fingers.

“Voryn, my brother, come in. Tell me what’s on your mind.”

“I see you still prefer illusion spells to magelights or candles,” Voryn said fondly.

“You fall into a habit when you work in the mines all the time… But I’m glad you came by. We couldn’t understand the Hortator’s sudden interest in our affairs, his odd behavior, but I think I finally arrived at a satisfactory conclusion.”

“Vemyn, I appreciate your concern-”

“I know you have a high opinion of him, but I thought it fit to warn you. He wants to cheat us. Why else would he be so... amiable with us? We’re barely acquainted, but he asked me if I wanted to join him for a guar ride in Mournhold. I think he had set his sights on the ebony and glass mines.”      

Voryn who was ready to acquiesce and admit his attraction to Nerevar if only to avoid torturous arguments stared at Vemyn in perplexity.

“You don’t believe me?” His brother went on. “You expression tells me that such thought never occurred to you. You were in the Council chambers when we discussed that new insidious tax. He needs money for his less than noble pursuits, and his army needs swords, shields, armor. We can give him what he wants, so he comes to us, armed with flattery and pleasantries.”

Voryn couldn’t contain his laughter, wishing that Nerevar could hear Vemyn’s speech and witness for himself the impression he had made on his brothers. “Will you find an herb for me while you are in Solstheim – wolsfbane petals, to be precise?”

His brother sank into the chair and dropped his head onto his chest. “You don’t suggest there are werewolves in Vvardenfell,” he said amicably. It wasn’t in Vemyn’s nature to insist upon a conversation which his interlocutors weren’t eager to hold.   

“No, I need it for my alchemical studies. It’s rare and I doubt I can buy it from alchemists on mainland. Or they’ll charge me a fortune… You’ve been to Solstheim on many occasions. I heard the plant’s quite common there.”

“I’ve seen it once or twice. It’s sold in small five ounce bags.”

“Bring me two bags of wolfsbane petals and a bag of vampire dust. My supply of it is low and in some potions it’s irreplaceable.”

“Do you remember we had the time of our life, hunting vampires together?” A mischievous smile played upon Vemyn’s lips. “It was before you became the Grandmaster, before the rise of the Hortator… We’d find one of their nests and burn it to the ground.”

“How can I forget? Odros hardly knew any magic, but he insisted on accompanying us because he was afraid he’d never measure up to us. And he’d come home with singed hair or deep gashes across his chest, and mother worried a lot… We didn’t know we could contract vampirism and didn’t take precautions. Fortune favors the young and the bold.”

Vemyn dipped the brush into the ink bottle and painstakingly traced out a fanciful letter on the parchment with long curlicues at the end of it so that it resembled some twisted living thing crawling towards the edge of the sheet. 

The door creaked and Araynys came in, gingerly carrying a magelight upon his palm. He wrapped himself in two warm cloaks, but his teeth chattered from cold and he looked miserable.

“Brother Voryn,” he said, sniffling (his name sounded awfully like ‘Boryn’). “I’m making a potion to cure my sickness, but I don’t remember which ingredients I should use.”

“Willow anther and chokeweed or daedra skin… Don’t fuss over nothing, I’ll show you again.”

Voryn put his arm on his brother's shoulder and walked with him towards the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And [another amazing illustration](https://78.media.tumblr.com/45551b854b013f8d6d1ea3a584f9ed70/tumblr_ox4tscFzrt1vgl2svo1_r5_1280.jpg) by cherrymoya. Thank you so much!!!


	15. Chapter 15

** Chapter 13: The Weather Machine **

Ald’ruhn was a dusty little town, unremarkable in all save for the last Emperor Crab whose gibbous form sprawled in a death-defying sleep along the flimsy fence. The legends didn’t preserve the name of the Ashlander hero who had slain the wondrous beast, but it strained Voryn’s imagination that a mere mer could pierce its tough shell. The Emperor Crab was a prey worthy of Hircine himself, and perhaps in times immemorial, when the sky bore scars of an incessant battle and the newborn world was in tremors, the dashing hunter with his dazzling spear chased after enormous crabs, the distant ancestors of the tiny, wretched mudcrabs, and feasted upon their corpses; or perhaps all of it existed in Voryn’s fancy.

 The sun blinded his eyes but didn’t give out warmth. The spring came late that year, pale and sunless, and on a rare occasion that the sun appeared from under the clouds, it was brilliant but unkind. Bereft of its kindness, lifeless stalks of grass crept low in the ubiquitous dust. It was as though the ash storms had blown dust from all corners of Tamriel into the godforsaken little town on the edge of Molag Amur and scattered it about the main road which began at the shell of the giant crab and wound, snake-like, amid the stones. The lone skylamp marked the crossroads whence a narrow, well-tended path led to the squat building of the Temple decorated with various symbols attributed to Boethiah, and no other source of light could be seen on the entire span of it, from the crab to the grand manor of a Redoran noble on the outskirts. A few huts took shelter in the Temple’s shadow, an inn and a smithy stood aloof, and opposite of them was a cluster of houses belonging to booksellers, alchemists, traders and a resident enchanter.

From the silt strider’s back, the entire town was in full view.

In Ald’ruhn, there lived a young Bosmer girl who had made a name for herself with her peculiar talents. Upon hearing Nerevar’s request, Voryn became heavy of heart and brooded about it for a bit before tentatively inquiring his brothers and household if they knew a good forger. He had decided at once that he couldn’t entrust so important a task to anyone and he would meet with the forger all on his own, concealing his identity as the Grandmaster of House Dagoth out of prudence. Odros unexpectedly came to Voryn’s aid and told him that he had heard of a trustworthy forger living in Ald’ruhn under the protection of Nerano Sarethi. Nerano’s name had great weight in the Redoran Council, and some wicked tongues blabbered – and the blabber spread far and wide – that he should have been the Archmaster of the House instead of Vilvan Melen who has been branded a coward before the Law and Land – an unforgivable offense for a Redoran warrior. Voryn took a siltstrider to Ald’ruhn in Gurak’s company, though even his faithful Orc wasn’t aware of the true purpose of his master’s journey, and met with the forger who turned out a young girl not older than thirty winters. For a mer as old as he, it was the age of a short-lived butterfly.

Fara – a name as fictitious as her works of art – studied Galmis’s writing for a while and asked ten thousand gold drakes for the fake letter. Voryn haggled with her for the sake of propriety, but her fate was sealed when he stepped over the threshold of her hut built inside the shell of a smaller crab. He came back a few weeks later, disguised as an ordinary traveler: he wore a simple black robe with a deep hood to conceal his face and leaned on a knotty staff. Gurak minced a few steps behind him, clutching a sizable pouch of gold to his chest. On a cloudless morning, many Ald’ruhn inhabitants were out and about, and now and then Voryn spotted a guard in bright colors of House Redoran or an Ashlander urging on his stubborn guar with a stick. The wind wafted the smell of freshly baked sweetrolls.  

By the door to Fara’s hut stood two morose-looking fair-haired Nords in heavy armor; one was smoking a bamboo pipe and her companion was chewing on a hackle-lo leaf, and both of them stared at Voryn with seething animosity.

“Well, look who Kyne dragged in bright and early,” said the man through clenched teeth and spat out the bitter leaf.

The Nord woman lazily searched his pockets and gave him a cheap amulet in the shape of a nix-hound claw. She warned him that the enchantment on it would drain all of his magicka, but to Voryn it felt as though the whole world had turned a dreary shade of gray, and he recalled to mind, distinctly, the day Mournhold was sacked. Scraps and shreds of thoughts, echoes of memories swarmed in Voryn’s mind. He reached for the heavy door handle and clutched at it with his numb fingers, struggling to breathe; unfamiliar, intolerable terror gripped his heart. What use did his feeble body have if he couldn’t command the storm and call forth armies from Oblivion? Voryn wished to tear off the accursed amulet from his neck, draw in deep lungsful of fresh air and tap into the vibrant wellspring of magic, but the hostile gesture would undo an entire month of scrupulous work. The head of House Dagoth growled out an order to Gurak and walked into a room crammed with shelves, chests, tables and chairs which here and there reached the low ceiling. He leaned against the wall to collect himself, and when his hands no longer trembled and his eyes and ears got accustomed to the bleak world, he looked for the staircase into the forger’s den.

The room had to be underground, as was true of many Ald’ruhn homes. It was smaller than the storage upstairs but cozy and richly furnished: a bed from expensive wood and the altar in the alcove with the offerings from precious gems, elaborate writing implements not unlike Vemyn’s and a pair of ebony firedogs in the shape of a Winged Twilight’s claw  – all testified to the hostess’s wealth. Her guard, a burly Nord in the unfamiliar colors, didn’t belong to any of the Great Houses, but Voryn entertained a suspicion that Fara had more than one patron among the influential Redoran Councilors.

“It is my hope that you don’t mind wearing the amulet. It’s a necessary precaution, not a whim of mine. By Azura, you didn’t think it was a mockery on my part, did you? No, it’s nothing of the sort… I daresay more nobles want me dead than our glorious Hortator. I consider it a good cause for boasting.” Fara said in a low, melodious voice and rose from the table where she sat with a magnifying glass in one hand and a reed pen in another. She was tall for a Bosmer, but Voryn towered above her like a dark, forbidding shadow. “I am a daughter of a lowly commoner, master, and my adopted father was from the Black Marsh. Think of it what you will.”

“Where’s the letter?”

She burrowed into a deep chest made from sturdy wood and ebony. “Here’s your letter. Anyone else would give you a cheap lookalike, but my fine work is indistinguishable from the original… You don’t think about these peculiarities when you write – the slopes of letters, their sharpness, the pressure of quill on paper – but each of us has a distinctive style. Methinks our faces are more similar than our handwriting.”

“What are you saying? You promised you wouldn’t use magic,” said Voryn gruffly.

“I didn’t lie. You needn’t fret about it. My secret ink gives it an illusion of perfect likeness. Even the keenest of eyes wouldn’t notice the difference. Even the mightiest of wizards wouldn’t detect the meddling of an alchemist. Now, my gold.”

“I don’t suppose I can take off the amulet and see for myself.”

“Go home, master, and should you find me a liar, come back to see me any time. I won’t disappear. My whole life is in Ald’ruhn. I haven’t seen much beyond its walls.”

“Empty assurances aren’t a novelty to me, but be it as you wish. Your reputation precedes you and I’ll trust those rumors if nothing else. Your payment is in the bag.”

Whilst Fara, with a greedy glimmer in her eyes which didn’t suit her goodly face, made a thorough count of the coins in the sack, Voryn marveled at the letter supposedly written by Galmis Hlaalu to the renegade of House Dres. The striking similarity in the handwriting would overjoy Nerevar, but Voryn couldn’t shake off an impression that his Hortator, subtly, hinted that he wouldn’t be forgiving of his mistakes.

Fara and her brutes couldn’t foresee that in dealing with one of the most powerful sorcerers of their age familiar and tried devices would fail them. Though the amulet felt like an anchor tied around his neck – a dead unmoving weight pulling him down – Voryn got used to the heaviness in his heart, and he sensed that the curse couldn’t cut him off from the well of Magnus.   

When the Nord turned away to put more wood into the fire, Voryn reached across the table and firmly gripped Fara’s hand. All men and mer are born blessed with the light of Magnus and have a disposition for magecraft, but not many devote a lifetime to develop their abilities. Fara was an alchemist, and all too soon her magicka ran dry, but, however meager, it was enough to invigorate him. Fara seemed so astonished that she sat still and wide-eyed until Voryn let go of her hand – the entire silent scene lasted but a moment – and only then did she shriek, startling her guard. He pulled out a _skegox_ and tried to edge his way between them to protect his mistress with that surly unpleasant expression characteristic of Nords who attacked without needless words. Voryn threw off the hood and stood erect with his arms spread wide. The guard evidently deemed him harmless, lunging at him without thought, and for that heedlessness he paid with his life.  A Daedric spear summoned from the depths of Oblivion pinned the nameless Nord to the wall, and cursing him with silence not to hear a vile torrent of entreaties and curses, Voryn turned to Fara who had slumped in her chair, horror-stricken. She avoided looking at the wall bespattered with blood or at her guard who writhed in soundless agony – her tearful eyes were fixed solely on him.

“What will you do to me? Take my gold if you want, serjo, I won’t breathe a word to anyone! Not a single word!”

“Be still and quiet,” said Voryn, leaning over to her. “I won’t harm you in any way. I may need your talents in the future, but I need you to forget I was ever here. I trust you’re not a talkative sort, but pain and fear can loosen any tongue. The less you struggle, the sooner I’ll be on my way.”

“I don’t want to lose my memories,” Fara prattled on. “What if you aren’t the first to take them away? What else have I forgotten?”

“It can’t be helped.”

Voryn touched her damp forehead, muttering a few words to himself, and her eyes closed shut, and her body grew limp, still. Without her chest heaving rapidly, without her legs swaying and her head bobbing excitedly, she was so small, pallid and reminiscent of a corpse. The illusion spell was crude for want of time, and the effects of it would be unpredictable. Fara would forget his face and the contents of the letter which she forged for him, but she could forget her own name or the faces of her parents, or the ingredients for her marvelous inks. Voryn couldn’t worry about such trifles. What is happiness of one woman weighted against the greater good of the Land?   

The cursed amulet slipped off Voryn’s neck and coiled on Fara’s lap, glittering in the dying fire.

***

The receiving room in Cardea’s mansion was crammed with pots of different shapes and sizes in which grew luminous mushrooms, bright flowers, wild berries and miniature swamp trees. Nerevar had an impression that he walked into an untended garden, with vines clinging to the walls and ornamented chandeliers shaped like wild willow flowers with purple crystals which cast soft light on the knotted round table. Cardea decorated her abode with such extravagance to remind her of her mushroom tower in Sadrith Mora.

When the Hortator with a purposeful stride entered the room, Cardea reposed herself in a green armchair opposite of a Bosmer woman of striking appearance. She was petite and shapely, with flaming-red hair and large blue eyes, with small plump hands, freckled cheeks and a fresh, tender face. Belwin was once a slave, but Cardea bought her freedom and took her into her household as an apprentice until one day, to the astonishment of everyone, they were married in the Temple of the Three and Belwin Telvanni became a respected sorceress. Nerevar never met a creature more capricious and spoilt than Belwin. She felt untouchable behind the Archmagister’s broad back, for anyone who wished to remain in Cardea’s good graces had to reckon with her, and as a true Telvanni, she thought little of conventions and traditions. Belwin wore a revealing silk blouse tucked into dark brown breeches, and there wasn’t a trace of reverence in her gaze or shamefulness in her pose.

By the door whose folds resembled leaves of a spiny tree, stood Cardea’s Dremora guards and their company visibly unnerved Nerevar’s retinue.

“Hortator,” said Cardea reservedly. “We didn’t expect you till late afternoon.”

“A terrible habit of mine,” confessed Nerevar, reaching for a glass of aromatic drink. It couldn’t compare with Voryn’s potions, but the Hortator would never offend the hostess for a paltry reason of having fallen in love (and dreadfully missing the object of his affection).

“We didn’t have the time to properly prepare for your visit-”

“There is no time. I must convince the Council and my Tribunes to attack Bal Ur. You refused to support me during the Council sitting, but I’ll forget your misdeed if your discovery satisfies me.”

“I’m not a true Telvanni according to my former master’s understanding of the role we play in the events to come. It was a preposterous notion. And then Mavos turns about and says that the famed Telvanni neutrality is a trap. My former master was quite the mer… I didn’t learn it from him that I must protect the interests of my House. I’ll stand alone in this endeavor if my House kin chooses to remain blind and petulant.”

“You’re never alone, my love,” brazenly murmured Belwin.

“It didn’t occur to me that you view my proposal as damaging to the interests of your House.”

“You may convince those ignorant, superstitious boors from House Dres and Hlaalu that their worthless hides and riches are in danger. I won’t interfere,” said Cardea. “I’ve known you for a few hundred years. You don’t believe in the imminent invasion from Oblivion. But visceral fear prompts men and mer to turn to you for protection, no? It’s fair to say that you don’t break promises to your people lightly.”

“I vowed before my ancestors to raze Bal Ur to the ground. Do you still venture to say that I take this matter lightly?”

“Ah, your vow was quite impressive. It moved a lot of mer to tears… Well, you came to me because I can solve your little riddle. So be it. Belwin, tell our Hortator what happened in Bal Fell almost a year ago.”

“Of course, mistress.”

Belwin raised her left arm which was covered in scars from a nasty burn and was missing a little finger and drew a few fiery lines in the air with an expression which, in Nerevar’s mind, suited a cheap street performer. Maps were not a commodity commonly kept in Telvanni abodes.   

“There was a travelling merchant from Suran by the name of Hlofgar... Or was it Hrofgar? Or Hforgar?” Belwin giggled. “It doesn’t matter. He was an insignificant man and now he’s dead. But I’m getting ahead of myself… One day he bought a collection of rare wines from a rather shady character. He couldn’t resist the temptation when he saw that the trader asked him a tenth of what he’d usually pay for such a find. He got lucky – or unlucky, if you think about what happened to him afterwards. Hfarfar,” Belwin gave way to her merriment and laughed loudly, “must have celebrated the deal and drunk some of that wine, for the wine was poisoned with a rare poison called the blood of Coldharbor.”

“It sounds familiar,” said Nerevar coldly.

“There’s a legend of a blood fountain called the Fountain of Forgetfulness which spurts forth from the center of Molag Bal’s accursed realm. Some mortals drink from it, for it is rumored to have miraculous properties. Or Molag Bal forces that drink down their throats. Or as was true of Hlorgaf-”

“That’s enough, Belwin.”

Belwin pursed up her lips in disappointment, but there was a roguish twinkle in her eyes. “You’re right, darling, you can mangle a Nord’s name only for so long before it isn’t funny anymore… Hrofgar wasn’t tempted or compelled to drink it, he was an unlucky Nord. The wine sang to him its sweet song. His body was his own, but his mind belonged to the Lord of Brutality. There is no known cure for that awful sickness.”

“Why didn’t you report your findings to the Council?”

“It took us a long time to put the pieces together. Azura cursed the shrine and the spirit of the only witness who could tell us the whole story was lost in the bowels of Coldharbor,” said Cardea. “I tried to summon him three times before I succeeded with Belwin’s help. Then I sent for you at once.”

“And Sotha Sil? Why couldn’t he see the connection between these mindless dancers in the street and the sacrifices at Bal Fell? It’s… obvious.”

“Your Tribune isn’t a necromancer. The less you know, the sounder you sleep… Won’t you go on, Belwin, if you please?”

“Ah, where was I? Hrofgar travelled to Bal Fell to sell his cursed wine. He got himself involved with a Daedric cult of Molag Bal, and the Prince sent him to a remote village to prepare a grisly ritual. At first, he sold the poisoned wine to the villagers. After they turned into the… _mind-shriven_ creatures, the head priest – a daedroth by the name of Amandi – harvested their souls without resistance-”

“Why?” Nerevar croaked, his throat dry.

“The spirit we summoned didn’t know, so we’ll have to keep you in suspense a little while longer, my lord. You wanted to know if Molag Bal can enslave mortals with a mere spell. I tell you that can’t turn us into _mind-shriven_ creatures unless we drink from the blood fountain… And give the Councilors our best regards, as we won’t be present during the sitting. We’ll be leaving Mournhold today. Another angry Telvanni lord told us that he refuses to teach our insufferable son magic. Divayth was always a precocious boy, but he shouldn’t go on and on about necromancy like that in the presence of many learned lords,” Cardrea added, looking quite pleased.

Divayth Fyr, Nerevar recalled, was the son of Cardea and Belwin – a profane offspring of their union who didn’t have anything in common with his parents. He was a pure-blood, well-bred Chimer who would one day inherit the secrets of longevity from his mother and live longer than the most ambitious sorcerer. Once Cardea asked him if he wished to participate in Divayth’s creation and give her his blood and seed, but Nerevar refused her flatly when she mentioned alchemy and a Dwemer birth pod. Cardea didn’t seem disappointed or insulted by his rejection. A few years later, Divayth Fyr mysteriously appeared in their household – a strong, healthy boy without a single drop of their ‘tainted’ blood in him. ‘Our blood is cursed – mine and Belwin’s,’ said Cardea. ‘We’re impure, tainted by human weakness. It’s impermissible that my sons and daughters bear the same curse as we.’ The birth of a flawless son was her triumphant escape, a bid for freedom from a perceived imperfection from which she could not deliver herself.

At the palace, the Tribunes anxiously awaited Nerevar’s return. They invaded his bedchamber, occupied his table, unceremoniously moved his papers, seals, and scrolls – prosaic attributes of power with which he was invested – and sent out his handmaiden.

Through the window came the gray light of a bleak, chilly morning.  

“Well, did she say anything useful?” asked Almalexia, leaning back in his chair with a rare expression of perfect calm. It was as if she already knew everything he had yet to tell her.

“I have everything I need to begin the siege of Bal Ur.”

“So it’ll happen at last! I understand the necessity to explain your will to the people at large, but it was becoming quite bothersome. I told you-”

“I don’t need another reminder that you were right. We will attack as soon as the message reaches our allies. It won’t take long. The devastation to Mournhold will be repaid in kind.”

‘Dagoth, Dres, Telvanni, Redoran, Hlaalu and lastly, Indoril – six Houses, six cornerstones, as Sotha Sil called them in his early lessons,’ Nerevar thought to himself, turning away from his wife. ‘We can’t trust House Dres until Almalexia’s investigation weeds out all traitors. My House is ready to follow me into battle. I but need to give a sign. The message can reach Voryn in a few hours if my messenger uses a propylon. I’m glad he’s away, it’s less suspicious. But I always have a way of reaching him, and he’ll come to my side. He’ll always come. Vilvan is away with his mistress, but Nerano Sarethi – a warrior to the marrow of his bone, and a favorite of House Redoran – is a trustworthy ally. Galmis left Mournhold, thank the Three… My messenger won’t reach him in time by a stroke of bad luck as all will say. The time couldn’t have been better.’

“Vivec,” the Hortator said aloud, “I’ll have you draft invitations. Gather the House lords at the palace tomorrow, I’ll address them briefly. When will you receive word from your scouts?”

“I’ll get in touch with them right away. Should I be obliging or forceful?”

“I’ll leave the choice of tone to you. Explain to them that their fears were unfounded. Molag Bal can’t bewitch them or turn them into obedient puppets.” And Nerevar told them everything he heard from Cardea and Belwin.

“The blood fountain,” muttered Sotha Sil. “The creature mentioned it once. She said that Coldharbor has many wonders. The name of one such miracle is Grunda, the name of the other is Heart’s Grief. The third wonder is a fountain, and Nirn’s blood flows through it. I wrote it down to contemplate her words later, when my mind was at ease, but she spoke in riddles beyond my comprehension. Not on account of superior intellect, I wager. Her mind was chaotic, fascinating.”

And until the Hortator took his leave, he didn’t say another word.

***

The preparations to gather everyone at the palace for a sitting were under way when Nerevar received an unexpected visitor. He was at the Temple, examining the old manuscripts which the priests had diligently copied onto the new parchment, when he was urgently summoned to the palace to prevent an ‘unfortunate incident’. There he was greeted by an already familiar rubicund Dwemer who became an object of invasive curiosity of a few Indoril nobles. After they retreated to the safety of Nerevar’s private chambers, the Dwemer, who turned out to be none other than the red-headed lord Leftunch from Galom Daeus, was profuse in his apologies for the sudden intrusion.

“In short,” he concluded his rather incoherent speech, “lord Dumac wanted to let you know that he changed his mind. He cannot send the cannons you requested, but he doesn’t wish to offend you and for that very reason he will lend you our latest invention – the weather machine.”

“The weather machine?” Nerevar was dumbfounded.

 “A most marvelous device! I even convinced him to give you a demonstration. Your kind can be very mistrustful of our inventions.”

“I didn’t agree to it. I asked for mortars, and Dumac promised me mortars. Bal Ur is a lair of an evil Daedric Prince. I want to burn it to the ground, not conjure Molag Bal a drizzle.”

“That’s quite a mistaken opinion, but I won’t hold your ignorance against you. Instead of arguing I offer to show you the full extent of its might.”

And so Nerevar was dragged against his will out of his cozy bedroom into the heart of the inhospitable Ashlands.

‘The weather machine’, as Protector Leftunch called it, turned out to be a large dome-like device with a needle-thin steeple surrounded by four stone pillars and a large platform where Nerevar appeared as he stepped through the portal which the Dwemer opened for him from Mournhold. The platform was suspended in the air above the chasm so deep that he couldn’t see the bottom of it. There, unseen and untamed, rumbled a sleepless volcano. Above him, in the vast enclosure of a steel cupola, a ghostly lightning would flash now and again, shedding pale light on the Dwemer workers who tirelessly conducted their mysterious rituals away from meddlesome witnesses so that everything that unfolded before the Hortator’s eyes would seem magical.

Lord Leftunch appeared to Nerevar’s left in the company of two robed and hooded engineers. He glanced round himself with glee, as though he was on the cusp of the greatest discovery of his life.

“Weather, lord Nerevar, is a capricious mistress,” he said, rubbing his pump hands together. “The more primitive peoples believe it to be the work of their gods. The evil gods brought about blizzards and storms while the benevolent gods gave them sunshine and abundant rain for the crops. Pure superstition! Forgive my blasphemy, of course, I don’t doubt that your Azura can conjure up a good storm. But we have acquired a power that would rival any god.”

“Is that so?” coldly asked a Redoran noble who accompanied Nerevar so that he could see the famed device for himself. It was Nerano Sarethi – a stately warrior with a noble bearing and a scarred face who conquered the hearts of many Mournhold beauties with his impressive victories in the Arena. He never spared a fallen foe or tasted defeat, embodying the Redoran ideal of a pious warrior who valued his duty, honored his ancestors, fought courageously, and reflected upon the hardships of life with due earnestness. He was immensely popular with the people, and without his consent no Redoran nobleman or commoner would join the Hortator’s array.

“I understand your skepticism-”

“I’ll be sending many people to their deaths in vain if this device doesn’t live up to my expectations. Spare me your idle talk.”

“Not so fast, lord Sarethi,” said Nerevar. “I have a question to our venerable host. There’s a volcano underneath us, am I right?”

Leftunch pursed his lips. “We’re in the middle of Molag Amur. There’s a lava lake under the entire region.”

‘Could it be that Voryn was right?’ Nerevar thought, but with his unsophisticated knowledge in magic, he didn’t quite know what to make of it all.  

Without further ado, Leftunch raised his arm and the hooded engineers approached a panel of some sort with a myriad of tiny levers upon it, to which Nerevar hitherto paid no heed. At first, they pulled two levers on the opposite sides of the panel, and the steel roof began to open up with a loud gritting sound like a flower bud. An ordinary firmament appeared before Nerevar. It was well past noon, and the clear sky was streaked with white clouds.

“Can you command an ash storm?” asked Nerano in superstitious wonder. “If our armies met on a battlefield, rain could definitely give us an edge, but we’re about to besiege a shrine. A strong ash storm will give us cover on approach and prevent stragglers from fleeing.”

“An ash storm, a blizzard, a torrent of rain – it makes no difference to me,” said Leftunch boastfully.

The engineers tinkered with the panel for a while, and the machine came to life. The dome-like device rattled, belching out hot steam, the lightning struck more frequently, a few blood-red crystals lit up here and there, and the abyss under their feet heaved a heavy sigh. The cold-blue expanse of the sky darkened, the white streaks of clouds began to fill with fire, and the fiery blood spilled out into the open. Nerevar couldn’t begin to guess what mysterious forces the unfathomable Dwemer magic manipulated. The winds picked up, sharp and biting, carrying sparse ash flakes. They were protected by the cliffs, but outside the mountain range, an ash storm raged and raged, and refused to abate.

Nerevar shook ash off his clothes. “I don’t understand why Dumac persists in his obstinacy and won’t give me my mortars.”

“I wish to please my lord who wants to test the weather machine. It’s a singular opportunity to assist you on the battlefield.” Leftunch stroked his lush beard, plunged deeply in thought. “I have five mortars here and they’re at your disposal should you find need for them. And the weather machine, of course. Will that satisfy you?”

“We can agree that it’s impressive and we’ll welcome your help. What do you think, lord Nerano?”   

The scarred face of the estimable warrior softened. “These are formidable weapons, lord Nerevar, and it will bring me dishonor to refuse you my support. House Redoran will fight with you as always.”

***

“Brother Voryn, you have a visitor.”

Voryn tore himself away from the letters which were scattered about his writing table and looked up at Vemyn who stood at the door with an imperturbable air about him.

“Ah, who is it?”

“A Dwemer.”

Voryn felt himself blush and burrowed his face into the letters, though he didn’t have any immediate use for them.

“He introduced himself as a scholar from Kherakah,” added Vemyn, “and he said that you were expecting him. I didn’t know anything about it, so naturally, I had to see you myself.”

“My apologies, Vemyn, I told no one. Can you show him into my chamber?”

The truth – and the source of Voryn’s shame – was that after his visit to Galom Daeus, he was overcome with such intense curiosity that he couldn’t deny himself the satisfaction for his restless, inquisitive mind. He immediately wrote to a few colonies, requesting a meeting with a scholar – a historian, a Tonal Architect, or a scribe – to discuss a private matter, and he did receive a few rejections before an apprentice of a Tonal Architect responded favorably to his invitation. While searching for a suitable forger, Voryn almost forgot about the object of his idle curiosity, but Radak kept his word and arrived to Kogoruhn in the company of a centurion spider.

“Radak of Druscashti, formerly of Kherakah,” he introduced himself with a curt bow. He was a young, swarthy Dwemer of earnest disposition, with bright eyes, well-defined mouth and a thin, refined nose – the most handsome Dwemer Voryn had ever met. Radak’s features were almost elvish, and though Voryn was wholly taken up with Nerevar, he allowed himself a moment of sincere admiration.

“Please, make yourself comfortable,” he said, looking away so as not to embarrass the youth. “I don’t want to tire you out with a lengthy conversation after a long journey, so Vemyn will show you to your room.”

“I thank you for your kindness, lord Dagoth. I didn’t bring a lot of things with me, only what Eight Legs – my centurion spider – could carry. A few books, a change of clothes, and an astrolabe. I hope it’s all right with you.”

“I’m looking forward to our discussions,” confessed Voryn. “But may I ask why you no longer study in Kherakah?” 

“No one from Kherakah would agree to meet with the surface dwellers. I broke down my former ingrained prejudice against your people and that didn’t earn me any recognition there.”

“I am grateful for your straightforward answer. Allow me to welcome you to Kogoruhn – Unbreakable Home in my tongue – and assure you that I will be at your disposal shortly. We have much to consider together.”

“I think so, too, lord Dagoth. I can’t begin to describe my excitement. When my Protector approached me with your request, I was deeply overjoyed. I always wanted to learn more about the ways of my neighbors, but I couldn’t in my wildest dreams imagine that I would meet face to face with a renowned lord such as yourself.”

Radak’s enthusiasm and Radak’s rare smile were infectious, and perhaps Voryn’s weakness was to blame for all the future disasters he would suffer because of this meeting – a momentary weakness that never eclipsed his infatuation with Nerevar; or perhaps it was the harsh mistress fate which could not be averted or mollified no matter how many lifetimes he lived.

Ignorance affords certain bliss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _mind-shriven_ \- an ESO mechanic. 
> 
> Also there is a lot more absolutely amazing art from [cherrymoya](http://cherrymoya.tumblr.com/) on tumblr for this fic. And a poetry collection from Aldariel/tintael. <3

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Gold and Azure](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12439215) by [Aldariel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aldariel/pseuds/Aldariel)




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